Game of Thrones: Pawn Takes Knight
by Reincarnated Poet
Summary: When Arya Stark walked through the gate of the Red Keep she never imagined her decisions would take her across the sea. She never imagined that she would stand beside Daenerys Targaryen or tell her own brother that he would never sit on the Iron Throne. Winter is coming, and she rides with the Mother of Dragons. Rated M as a caution.
1. Winter Comes to Qarth

Reincarnated Poet: Hello all. This story is actually evolved over night. Last night it was non-existant. Today it is what you see before you as well as another 7 or 8 thousand words. Hope you like it. I'm not the type to hold chapters hostage for reviews, but if I feel no one's out there reading, I won't update. So if you want more, let me know.

Chapter One: Winter Comes to Qarth

When she had asked Jaqen H'ghar to help them escape from King's Landing in the dead of night, she wasn't aware that he'd simply kill all of the men on watch. It wasn't as though any of them had softened her heart, but none of them had made it to the list of names she said every night as though it kept the world together. Seeing their corpses there, some strung up to appear standing, one with a pike clean through his spine and into the ground, something in her shifted. Jaqen H'ghar was her friend, but he was a dangerous friend. A girl should be bloody too; this is her work. The words that he'd spoken slid through her mind just like that, and as Hot Pie and Gendry walked behind her on either side, she had the deepest urge to reach out and dip her finger tips in the blood below them. Her eyes darted from corpse to corpse until finally she spotted him, up above as always, leaning against the battlements with a dagger in his hand.

She nodded in his direction, and he only watched her, eyes sharp and glittering in the moonlight. He was challenging her. She had given the man his own name, and in the moonlight, he was telling her to take it. She could of course, simply call out, loose her throat and scream like she imagined Sansa would, but that would be against her goals, and for some reason, the girl trusted the man. Her eyes darted up to him one last time, and in the moonlight, she walked toward a glittering pool of blood, dipped her fingers into the thick soup, and stared down at them in the dark. She looked back up at him, a smile on her face, but he was not there. Her face fell, and Gendry was pulling at her elbow, so she let him take her along, through the gates. No one stopped them. No one followed them.

The night outside of the walls was cold, and they didn't speak for fear of drawing the attention of any guards that could be walking the perimeter, but Arya felt more free than she had in the course of a year. Had it really been that long? She thought back to the last time she had truly felt free. It had been standing with Serio as he told her that there was only one god. In the dark Gendry took her hand, wiping it clean of the blood that was drying there. She scowled at him, but he didn't look at her face. She let him scrub, and scrub he did until her fingers hurt.

"Stop it!" She ordered, jerking her hand away. Gendry startled at the movement, eyes wide in the darkness. "You're going to rub my skin off." She chided, turning away from him to walk through the thickening tree line. Out away from the wall, she wasn't sure exactly where they were going to go. A chill raced down her spine and she felt the need to go, move, run. Her eyes sought out the darkness, but there was nothing there. Shaking it off they continued onward through the night, putting as much distance between themselves and the Red Keep as possible. When the sun started to rise and sent thin tendrils of light through the tree canopies, they started talking again.

"Arry, can we just take a break?" Hot Pie asked, breath coming in gasping pants. Arya turned, glancing over her shoulder at the boy's reddened face. Gendry wasn't panting, but his breath was coming more quickly than normal, and there was a slump to his shoulders. Arya stood for a moment, truly letting her body speak to her, and in that second, she felt their fatigue.

"Yes." She agreed, almost smiling as Hot Pie collapsed to his buttocks and immediately curled up to sleep. Gendry was more regal about it, and that was the only way that she could describe it. For a blacksmith's apprentice, he carried himself with an air that she'd seen in her father, in Robb, and on occasions in Jon. Her heart ached at that. Jon. Her bastard brother was alone hundreds of miles north, on a god forsaken spit of frozen wall, probably unaware that their father was dead, Robb was going to war, and she had cut her hair off and become a boy.

She eyed the world around her. It would take some time for them to figure out a direction, but all she wanted to do was get as far away from King's Landing as possible. "Arya." Gendry murmured, and she jumped. She hadn't heard him move so close. "Come on, get some sleep." He all but ordered. We'll move on in a few hours." She nodded and laid down under a tree, settling her back against the rough bark. As it had night and night again, sleep claimed Hot Pie and Gendry seemingly long before it claimed her. She turned her back to the boys and sighed.

In the light of the day it was more difficult to sleep, and her tongue itched to start muttering names. She waited for Gendry's breathing to die down behind her before she started. "Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Mountain." She drew a breath and already she was relaxing. "The Tickler. The Hound." Another deep breath. "Weese. Polliver." Another. "Joffrey." A deeper breath and her eye lids started to relax. "Cersei." Another and another. "Ilyn-" She didn't get his last name out before she was asleep.

Gendry sat against a tree, listening to Arya's list of names. It pained him as it had the first time he heard her muttering her death list. For someone so young and pleasant to fall asleep with dreams of blood on her hands made him shutter. When she'd dipped her fingers into the blood at the gate he'd thought they'd lost her. The assassin was up on the wall, staring at her as though she had something about her that only he saw. It had made the blacksmith's insides burn, and he'd taken her by the elbow and drug her from the gate. The blood on her finger tips had haunted him until he scrubbed it away, and now she lay murmuring epitaphs for men and women still living.

He sat, back against the tree, and waited for the list of names to stop. When it finally drifted away he gave a deep sigh and leaned his head back, letting himself fall into slumber. In his dreams the world was in chaos, or at least his world was. In his dream world, Arya Stark was standing on a field of battle. There were men and women around her, fanned out, all in various stages of armor, gripping weapons as diverse as they were. She had a wicked grin on her face, a long, thin blade in her hand, blood spattered across her face as someone lay dead at her feet.

He watched as she turned to the small group at her back, said something that he couldn't hear, and they roared, faces contorting and voices screaming. He quickly realized that he was the man laying at her feet, death was creeping up on him, and as he looked up at her, she turned back to him, gave him a sad little smile, and stepped over his corpse. The group followed her, and as they left the world dimmed. The last thing he recalled from the dream was a large grey and white wolf leaning over him whimpering and crying.

He woke to rain. Arya was already awake, sitting with her arms wrapped around her and her head bowed in the wet. Hot Pie slept on, occasionally sputtering and rolling over if a rain drop landed in his face. "Been awake long?" He asked, but already knew the answer.

"Winter is coming." She murmured, as if she wasn't aware she'd said it. "It's getting colder. We've got to figure something out today." She mumbled, shook herself, and stood up to wake Hot Pie. "There were soldiers in the night. Came through to the west, but they passed us by. They were looking for run away slaves." She gave Gendry a hard look and her eyes flickered back and forth.

"We'll have to stay off the roads." Gendry reasoned, climbing to his feet, wincing at the aches that the chill of the night had brought. "Lannisport should only be an hours walk. We could find passage north." He offered, hoping that the promise of her family's lands would spark some interest in her. He was not disappointed.

"I wonder if my brother has woke." She asked the air, and in that moment, Gendry saw the wolf from his dreams. He saw her father in her then, and it settled his dis-ease.

"Let's get going. I'm starving!" Hot Pie declared, and in a few minutes they were walked through the forest again, speaking every once and a while. Hiding when the random squirrel or boar snuffed at the grass only to laugh off their jumpiness. Lannisport was nothing but chaos. Men and women ducked and bantered. There were boats of all sizes and shapes, rendering Arya and Hot Pie awed. Gendry chuckled and disappeared through the throng of men and women. He had been in Lannisport before, selling what extra weaponry and armor that he'd made at the blacksmith.

Arya and Hot Pie walked from stall to stall, and Arya even managed to sell the clothing that Tywin Lannister had given her for a profit, even while purchasing warmer clothes for all three of them. The wonder of the Lannister sigil almost frightened her. She wished that she'd grabbed something else with their lion on it, if only to sell it for more useful wares later. Gendry returned with a foul look on his face.

"There are no trade ships going North." He informed. "The Lannisters have cut off the North from their trade, and there have been soldiers asking after three slaves." He glanced to Arya, whose face paled. While the North relied on little trade from the South, it did rely on food stores through the winter. "We need to get out of Lannisport." Gendry muttered, taking the cloak that Arya held out for him.

"And go where?" She asked, a wave of depression washing over her. "We cannot walk to Winterfell. It was a month's ride." Gendry nodded in agreement, eyeing a passing soldier who was talking to the merchants. Arya followed his gaze and paled. He was talking to the woman that she'd sold the Lannister's clothing to. With a swift pivot she was pushing Hot Pie and Gendry through the crowds. "Go. Pick a ship and get on." She hissed, dodging men and women who were carrying wares back and forth on the dock. "They've found us." Through the crowd she could hear the firm bark of a soldier to part the way, but in the throng of people his order was unheeded.

"Where Arya?" Gendry asked, trying to navigate while her little hands dug into the small of his back, pushing him forward. Hot Pie was grousing and struggling to keep up, but she dug her heels into the wooden boards beneath their feet and kept pushing forward.

"Anywhere." She cried, and pushed them again. "Pick one, quickly." And quickly he did. With a pivot he changed directions, gripping both Arya and Hot Pie's arms and pulling them toward a trading vessel that was being stocked. It was easy to slip in amongst the deck hands and disappear into the hold, hiding amongst boxes and barrels, crates and baskets. Gendry settled the two youngest against the back of the hold and peered up over the stacks. They wouldn't be found. When he turned back Hot Pie was already chewing on something he'd pulled from a basket, making an odd face. "Good choice." Arya observed, eyeing the dried spices and fruits that were boxed around them.

"Saw it earlier." He muttered, pulling a dried date from his pocket. "Its not going North." He muttered, eyeing Arya who simply nodded in acceptance.

"Where are we bound?" She asked, but Gendry did not answer. Instead, he glanced at the crates around him. On the top of a barrel there was a emblazoned crest of the country of Qarth. He lifted the lid and held it up for her inspection. For a moment she held her breath, racking her brain for the sigil. It took a moment, as she wasn't as skilled at heraldry as Bran or Robb, but it came to her quickly. "Qarth?" She asked, face brightening at the thought of adventure across the sea.

"What's Qarth?" Hot Pie asked, but was quickly ignored as Arya continued to rage about the free lands.

"They say that there are dragons there!" Arya cried, probably louder than she should have, but Gendry couldn't bring himself to chide her. It had been so long since he'd seen a true child like response from her it was comforting to know that she still had the ability to smile. "And they say that Daenerys Targaryen is there. That she married a Dothraki horse lord and has taken over his people. They say that she carries the stallion that will mount the world!" Hot Pie sat with his mouth open, listening as Arya recounted the exploits of Daenerys Stormborn.

"How do you not know news of your own home, but you know all there is to know about what happens across an ocean?" Gendry asked, regretting it the moment her face fell.

"News about Daenerys isn't kept quiet from cup bearers, but even the Lannisters know that a cup bearer who hears about someone close by can cause problems." She sighed, but there was still a spark to her face. "Did you know that they call her the Mother of Dragons?" She asked Gendry, who simply shook his head, happy that his mention of her family had been forgotten.

"I would very much like to meet a woman that they could call Mother of Dragons." Gendry said, face sober as he could make it. "Could you imagine birthing a dragon?" And they collapsed into laughter. When the ship moved from the dock, Hot Pie could no longer even look at the food in the barrels, his stomach churning with sickness. Gendry himself was eyeing the barrels with disdain, but Arya just wanted to explore the vessel, slipping in and out of the hold more times than Gendry could scold her for. The trip took longer than expected, and by a week into the voyage, Arya had made friends with a kitchen girl who slipped her roots for Hot Pie and Gendry to chew. It came none too soon, as Hot Pie was starting to look more thin than fat, and Gendry's already slim body was looking frail despite the hard muscle from years wielding a hammer. The roots, while tasting terrible, did their job, and soon Hot Pie was back into the baskets of fruits and spices, coming up with new (and often times disgusting) combinations. Gendry looked more healthy, but took to the food with less relish than the shorter, more round boy.

"You're going to get us hung, Arya." Gendry groused when she brought more of the bitter tasting medicine the next day. "Do you think they won't notice a girl creeping around their deck?" Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"I'm a boy. Do you know how many times one of the sailors has cried out to me to hold something down or to clean up some mess or another." She rolled her eyes. "The men on this ship don't care who I am as long as I'm handy on deck, and the girl in the kitchen isn't even sure I'm a girl." She sighed and handed over the small bit of root. "But they are running out, and the captain's been swearing about poor wind and tides. We should have landed three days ago." She shared an uncomfortable look with Gendry, who was now rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Did you hear anything else?" He asked, but she shook her head and disappeared up the ladder again. Gendry sighed and leaned back against a barrel of apples, picking one from the stack and chewing on it slowly as his stomach settled. It bothered him that Arya was above deck, learning and seeing everything while he cowered below, hiding as efficiently as he could with Hot Pie. Something about the way she seemed to glow when she first came down the ladder, and how that glow died slowly as she spent more time in the dark. He found himself wanting that glow, wanting to see it in all its glory up in the sunlight. He sighed and ducked behind the barrel when a seaman came below to get some manner of provisions or another. He settled back against the wood of the ship and fell asleep.

Arya shook him awake some time later, face lit with something that was new and exciting. "The carajo spotted Qarth a few hours ago We'll be in port by nightfall." She moved on, shaking Hot Pie awake, who had fallen asleep with an apple core on his chest. Gendry gathered the cloak that Arya'd given him and quickly tried to cover up the evidence that any stow aways had been on the ship. Hot Pie lolled back to sleep, and Gendry found himself taken in its embrace quickly as well. It felt like a few minutes before Arya shook him awake again, disgusted with the fact that he was asleep again. "Come on, we've got to go. They're unloading. Each of your grab something and act like you're helping." They did as they were told, and stepped for the first time from the darkness. The sun burned the back of his eyes, and Hot Pie dropped the keg he was holding to cover his eyes. A sailor chided him and kicked at his backside, but he escaped easily enough.

Arya dropped the crate she'd been carrying in the pile and slipped around the back side onto the docks of Qarth.


	2. When Dragons Lie With Wolves

Chapter Two: When Dragons Lie with Wolves

Daenerys Targaryen was standing in the market, trying to clear the rage from her mind. Jorah had been trying to talk her out of going to the House of the Undying for the better part of the day, but he couldn't understand the fire. "Kahleesi, you have to listen-" It had been the seventh time he'd told her to listen, and something inside of her snapped.

"I am Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborne, Mother of Dragons, and Kahleesi of the Dothraki people. I bore Rhaego, Stallion that Would Mount the World! I do not need to listen to you a moment longer!" She raised her arms in a rage, spinning toward him, long, pale hair falling in waves down her back. She had changed from the soft gowns that the Spice King had given her into her Dothraki clothing. Something about her had hardened when she bore the Dothraki crown. "You, Jorah, will leave or help me! I swear to the three that I bore into this world that I will get them back. By my husband's best horse, I will get them back!" She turned away from him, squinting into the sun where it burned against the pale stone at her feet and gave the exotic plants life around her. Jorah remained quiet, head bowed, hand on his sword.

His Kahleesi would not listen, and there was little he could do to change matters. Instead, he leaned his head back, took a breath, and turned away from her. The House of the Undying was something that he had always heard rumors about. A dark place in the dark of hearted where the rules that governed live and death did not apply. He feared what would happen should Daenerys enter that door. The dead were dead. There was no undying, and the visions of the shade of the evening only made one see things that did not exist. He was started from his thinking on the House of the Undying by a small boy, who had run from the fan leafed plants and straight into his legs. Daenerys turned at the sound, but said nothing as the boy collapsed to the ground on his butt and elbows.

Jorah's sword was drawn before he realized he'd done it, the tip pressed against the boy's chest. "Watch yourself, lad, of you'll end up in two." He cautioned, pressing the tip just a touch harder, drawing a dollop of blood before retreating. The boy looked up with hard, grey eyes, never flinching.

"Arry!" The cry came, and a much taller boy emerged from the foliage. "Leave him alone!" He cried, putting himself between the boy and the knight. Jorah blanched and backed away.

"I'll not harm the lad. It was a caution. A lesson was learned here." Daenerys watched with amused eyes as the so called 'boy' rose to his feet and wiped away the blood that was already clotting.

"Are you so blinded, Jorah, that you think this a boy?" She asked, eyeing the girl with a smile. "She's done no harm, let them go."

"Daenerys, I meant only to-" Jorah started, but was cut off by the girl whose face had lit with such a shine he wondered how he'd confused her for a boy.

"You're Daenerys Stormborne?" Arya asked, stepping around Gendry and slipping past Jorah, who had once again reached for his sword. "Mother of Dragons!" Arya cried, a smile on her face that made Daenerys forget about her children for a split moment. "Heir to the Targaryen Iron Throne. Kahleesi of the Dorthraki!" Daenerys laughed and made a shushing motion.

"Yes. And who are you, little girl, that knows about a shunned princess?" She asked, spitting out the last word. Perhaps the masses were drinking secret toasts to her health.

"I'm Ar-"

"Arry." Gendry cut in, silencing Arya from giving away who she was. He shook his head, but Arya ignored him.

"We're thousands of miles away from the Lannisters or the Baratheons. What does my name matter here?" She asked, and turned back to Daenerys. "Arya of the House of Stark." She informed and Daenerys's face fell slightly.

"The Starts are fighting the Lannisters and the Baratheons fight each other." Daenerys echoed her own words from earlier. "What is a Stark girl doing so far from home?" She asked, taking in the girl's appearance appropriately. "In rags and a boy's hair?" Arya ducked her head, shame coloring her face for a moment. Sansa surely would have been more warmly accepted, she chided herself.

"I was taken by the Lannisters. It was safer to travel as a boy." Her head did not come up from the stones until Daenerys crouched in front of her.

"Smart girl." She murmured. "My brother didn't feel the need to travel while hiding who we were, and it always seemed wrong to me." She paused a moment, considering the girl. It was easy to think of the Starks as the enemy when one of them wasn't in front of her, gushing about her titles and the tales of her adventures. "Why don't you hate me?" She asked. The Starks had taken a particularly personal blow from her father. Arya had looked up at her, but the happiness drained from her face. Whenever the Targaryens were mentioned at Winterfell, the entire room went cold. Her father's sister, brother, and her grandfather had been killed by the Mad King, but did that mean that Daenerys was responsible? Was Arya responsible for the men of the Wall that her father beheaded when they abandoned their post? Was Jon responsible for their father's adultery? No. The answer would always be no.

"You didn't burn my family." She murmured, face stern and pensive. "The Mad King did. He's dead." She looked back at Daenerys, shocked by the way she seemed to glow in the sunlight. "Where are your dragons?" Arya asked, eyes darting around the sky and the ground about them. Daenery's face hardened and she straightened up, turning away. Hot Pie puffed into the market place, wide eyed and panting. Jorah eyed the boy, but after being chided once, he wasn't willing to draw his sword again on a child.

"They were stolen from me." Daenerys spat out, fire in her words. "Pyat Pree thinks he can take what does not belong to him." Her voice hardened and Arya's heart did as well. This was the Mother of Dragons, she who brought the flying fire breathers back into the world-a story that she still wanted to hear-and someone had taken them from her? How did one steal a dragon, Arya had to wonder. "I am going to get them back." Her voice was firm, there was no question to the statement.

"And I will help you." Arya informed, putting her hands on her hips and making the statement as though it was obvious. Daenerys turned, staring oddly at the girl in front of her, taking in the scowl on the older boy's face.

"Your friend doesn't feel that would be a wise idea." Daenerys pointed out, but Arya ignored Gendry completely. Instead, she straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and set her jaw. "Then you will help me, but you'll stay away from the House of the Undying." Daenerys echoed. "And when I go back to take my throne, you will be welcome with me." Daenerys turned away and walked off down the stone pathway. She had a House of the Undead to find, and while Arya Stark had cleared her mind for a moment, she could feel the anguish of her children separated from her now for two days. The Spice King would pay when she took her throne back. They would all pay, but for now, she had a wolf pup for an ally. One day, when she sat on the Iron Throne, and commanded all the banners of Westeros, she would come back to Qarth. She might take it. Build a castle there. She smiled. Might build a castle, and give it to the wolf pup.

Arya watched Daenerys leave, and wondered at the mix that she made. She was like herself, if the stories were true. A brave woman looking for more than an advantageous marriage, but to look at her...to look at her she was more beautiful and elegant than Sansa. Arya smiled. Perhaps she could be both. If someone like Daenerys Targaryen saw a need to keep her hair combed and her dresses hanging appropriately, then perhaps there was something to be found there. Arya smiled, wincing when she felt the dirt on her face crusting. Small steps, she told herself. First she'd wash her face.

The House of the Undying was something of legends around Qarth. Arya was used to being able to speak with the lower bornes and finding information. It was something she'd done back at Winterfell. It was something she'd done at the Red Keep. It would be something that she knew the value of until the day that she died. Today, it was a baker's daughter that told her of the House of the Undying. The girl was wide eyed and spoke with an accent that was difficult to understand on occasions, but she knew more about the mystics that lived there than anyone could ask for.

"Tha's a say-yin'." The girl spoke in a nasally tone. "Tha tha mae-gics may-ke ya drink tha blue from tha tra-ees." Arya fought to understand the girl, processing the sounds and trying to make them into words. "Tha may-ke ya see thangs! But ya'll be foine if'n ya go-we rie an' up!" She shouted, indicating right and upward with her hands. Arya nodded and thanked her. The girl smiled and nodded her head, obviously pleased to be of use.

Gendry had yelled at her when she'd gone to talk to the girl, but he definitely wouldn't be pleased when he learned what she'd planned on doing, which was exactly why she went straight to Daenerys, who was sitting at a fountain, listening to Jorah chide her about wanting to go to the House of the Undying. Arya approached slowly, listening, but when it became clear that nothing of value was being said, she made herself known.

"Daenerys!" She spoke, and both the knight and the Kahleesi nearly jumped from their skin.

"Too quiet for your own good." Jorah said when he realized how close she had gotten to them without being heard.

"There's nothing wrong with being quiet when there are enemies at every corner." Daenerys said, taking in Arya's cleaned face and hands. The girl looked much more like the Starks she had heard of now that the layers of filth had left her face.

"I'm going to go to the House of the Undying, and get you your dragons." Arya declared, and at that the Kahleesi's back straightened. "But I need you to distract the mystic." She informed, opening her hand to reveal a hand full of the leaves from the trees that grew around the House. "They make you drink this, but it gives you visions. I don't know if its important, so I'm going to have to do it. If you distract them after I go in, I'm sure I can get to your dragons and get out." Daenerys glanced at the girl, face calm and thoughtful.

"Girl, do you know what you're offering?" Jorah asked, honor making him caution the Stark girl, but the want to protect Daenerys was too strong to try very hard.

"I know what I'm doing. I've been playing innocent behind enemy lines for the past year. I am not a child." Arya demanded, clenching her hands at her sides. "I can handle this. If I can handle the dreams of my father's head rolling across the stones of Kings Landing every night then I can handle whatever this weed will make me see." She raged, and Daenerys's back straightened. She hadn't known that Eddard Stark had been put to death.

"Your father was killed?" She asked. While she had been raised to hate the Starks, every tale of Lord Eddard was an honorable one. There was nothing that she could remember in her stories that would make the Lord of Winterfell's head roll.

"Joffrey had him killed. The bastard had Ilyn Payne remove his head because he called him what he was!" Arya raged, arms shaking and teeth clenched. Daenerys took a step backward, trying to calm the girl, but Jorah's hand was already on the hilt of his sword.

"Little Stark, these are my dragons, and I'll be the one to go get them. Is there no one that would mourn you if you never left the House of the Undying?" Her words seemed to calm the girl, for she stopped shaking and her jaw loosened.

"My mother." Arya's eyes seemed to stare at something that wasn't there. "Jon and Robb. Bran and Rickon." She took a breath and muttered another name, "Sansa."

"I thank you for wanting to help, Arya Stark, but what type of Kahleesi would I be if I let a child go where I wouldn't?" Daenerys was startled by her own words, the regality to them, and from the look on Jorah's face, he wished that she'd simply let the girl do as she pleased. "I can promise you that when I take my throne, I will remember your offer. Joffrey took your father from you. I'll see him brought to justice."

"No." Arya muttered. "No, you won't. I will kill Joffrey. I or my brothers." She was firm in the statement. "They who give the sentence should swing the sword." Arya echoed her father's words, something that she has heard him tell Bran and Robb at one time.

"Ned Stark told me that once." Jorah said, eyes distant. "When he told me that I would be put to death for selling to slavers." Arya looked up, shocked and hard at the knight. "Your father was not always as virtuous as you'd think, Arya Stark." He turned away, but Arya was not to be silent on the count of her father.

"People should not be slaves." Arya said, firm and insistent. "If you sold to slavers, I would let your head lose as well." She was a hard girl, Jorah decided later, when he had time to cool down. Of course, when he'd sold the poachers to slavers, he had known that it was against the law. He'd known the penalty would be death. It did not help that he'd attempted to sell the young Baratheon boy before he'd been named king, and Lord Eddard Stark. All Jorah had known at the time was that he'd caught poachers on his land, killing his boar. He'd disarmed the pair of them and taken them to sell as slavers. Later, when Robert Baratheon was named King of the Iron Throne, his indiscretions were not forgotten. Eddard had been sent to find him, and had given him the option of exile or death. Jorah had fled as quickly as he could, following the Targaryen siblings.

As it was, Daenerys had agreed with Arya, and the argument had been ended. At that moment though, Jorah did not care that his freedom was taken from him by the Stark family, because as the little slip of a girl gripped a handful of dark leaves and slipped away from his Kahleesi with a look of determination on her face, he knew what she went to do.

Jorah eyed Daenerys for a long time after he knew what Arya Stark was going to do. She would blame him for this later, but he kept his mouth closed.

Across the expanse of the city, Arya start was sipping on a flagon of tea that she'd made from the black leaves, walking around a large tower, waiting for a door of some kind to appear and let her in. Only after she'd drained half of the bitter liquid did the stones fold away from each other and let her in.

Inside, Arya was feeling the effects of the tea that she'd taken in. The edges of her vision were bleeding black, and inside that darkness, she was starting to see things. She was running, through the first door and up the first flight of stairs before the visions hit her. The first one was hard. Heavy handed and easy to tell herself that it wasn't true. It was Nymeria holding Sansa down, ripping at her throat. The pale of the girl's skin was in sharp contrast to the red of her blood. It was easily dismissed as she ran through another door. When it slammed behind her, the vision was harder to stomach.

"Father!" She yelled, running forward, taking herself to a stop. "Father?" She asked, walking to the man who stood in the middle of the room. He was smiling at her, and for a moment, she forgot why she was there. He opened his arms, and she ran to them, folding herself in his cloak, inhaling, trying to catch the sent that was always clinging to him, but it wasn't there.

"Arya, my dove." He murmured into her hair, and she froze. He had always called Sansa dove, but Arya had always been something more fierce. She pulled away and looked at him again. It was her father's face sure enough, but there were flaws there, things that did not exist. He was too smooth, too perfectly drawn. Scars were gone and in their place was smooth skin. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you." Arya mumbled, tears welling at her eyes and she darted past him, running again.

The next room was easier to ignore again. She quickly decided that she liked the bloody scenes. They were easier to ignore than the one of her mother crying for her to come home. Bran running toward her with Rickon on his heels. Sansa asking her to help with her hair. The bakers boy alive and well, holding a wooden sword and smiling at her. Nymeria and Summer rolling in a field. Jon back from the wall, a smile on his face and a new sword to replace Needle. Those images made her want to stop and stay. It was those that were the most dangerous. Even when those images turned, she was more pleased. Her mother's head on a pike by her fathers. Bran laying at the bottom of the tower, dead from the fall. Rickon beheaded by Jamie Lannister. Sansa laying in a birthing bed with Joffrey cutting a baby from her stomach. The baker's boy tossed over a saddle, eyes wide and damning. Nymeria laying death with Lady. Jon on the wall, alone and facing a hoard of wildlings with no one at his back, calling for help from anyone: Arya, Robb, his father, even his mother. Those were all easier to stomach, because in the end, she could tell herself that they were not real and accept it happily. Telling herself that the happy visions were fake was much more difficult.

The last ladder she climbed was the most difficult. It was Jaqen H'ghar, standing next to a large red man, with rippling arms and entirely too much leather. "The girl owes the Red God a name." He murmured, drawing a blade, eyes sorrowful. "The Red God demands the name." He ducked his head and plunged his dagger into his own chest. The large man gave a booming laugh and pointed at her. "You gave a man his own name." And it was Jaqen's voice, condemning her. She collapsed to her knees, tears running down her cheeks again. The thought of Daenerys in the back of her mind made her stand and keep going. The last door she passed through was anti-climactic. Inside it was dark, pitch black. When the door closed behind her she was lost.

The whispering started afterward.

You'll die here.

They're going to kill Robb.

You're going to kill them all.

She ignored the voices, walking further into the room. A dull flicker of flame drew her attention, followed by another, and she followed it. The whispers started getting less vengeful, and more certain.

Princess Stark.

Dragon Rider.

She moved closer to the flickering flame, and as she go closer, she realized what it was: dragon flame. She ran then, closer and closer, ignoring the echoing voices and the images that kept blurring her vision. They were smaller than she'd expected, about the size of Nymeria when she'd first seen her. The first she saw was black and red, angry and spitting fire as often as it could. The second was green and bronze, staring at her with such deep eyes that she wasn't sure if it was looking at her or into her. The last one she saw startled her. She'd never thought of a dragon as beautiful. Dangerous. Deadly. Yes, but beautiful no. This dragon was just that. A pale cream with golden scales that littered her body, and Arya knew it was a her. It had to be a her, she finally decided, staring at her.

It paced forward, staring at her, pacing in circles around her, staring out into the dark. The other two circled her, and just as if they had deemed her worth, a light appeared, from a long hallway of black. They followed it first, and she went second, in awe. The sunlight didn't clear the hallucinations from her head, but she tried to ignore them, following the three dragons around the expanse of the large tower. When she came around the other side, Jorah and the Dothraki guard were standing there alone.

"Kahleesi!" Jorah was yelling, pacing back and forth around the tower. He caught sight of Arya and the three dragons, hand on his sword. "Arya! Did you see the Kahleesi?" He asked, and she felt something drop in her stomach. Like throwing a stone in an empty well.

"Why would she go in?" Arya asked, turning back to the tower.

"It didn't take long for her to figure it out when your boy came accusing her of sending you in." Jorah nearly growled. "You didn't see her inside?"

"No. Why would she go in?" Arya asked again, and in that moment she knew why. She hadn't thought Arya could bring her dragons back to her. Daenerys Targaryen didn't trust her. Her gaze fell and the dragons moved forward, sniffing the air and circling the tower. Jorah resumed shouting at the tower, pacing in circles, trying to find a door that had disappeared in the mystics magic. Arya turned back to the building, took a long while staring at it, as if it would tell her something, and turned around, walking with purpose in the other direction. If Daenerys Stormborne had no faith in her, Arya of the House Stark would show her differently. The flask of hallucinogenic tea at her hip sloshed, and she uncorked the top, taking a long drought.

As if it worked simply by hitting her lips, she swayed on her feet, and as she turned toward the building the door appeared again. She took a step forward, and tried to shake off the hallucination of Gendry shouting at her and Jorah telling her to stop. The door disappeared behind her and she continued onward. Her second time through the tower, Arya Stark was lost. She floated on a sea of people and places, some she'd seen, some she hadn't. A small babe and a dark eyed man seemed to echo through the images, calling to her, egging her forward. She followed them, always too far behind to hear what he was telling her, but in the end, he turned and waited for her.

The closer she got, the more she feared him, but something propelled her feet forward. He crouched down, holding the child in his arms, and smiled at her. "Save the moon of my life, and you will ride with the Horse God." His voice was deep and in a different language, but somehow in the haze she knew the words. He gripped a short, twisted dagger at his hip and placed it in her sweat slicked hands. He tugged her along for a moment, but as he pulled her forward, he faded, grew smaller, and changed. Instead of the dark eyed man, there was a pale, younger man, with dark ringlets of hair that hung to his chin. Even from behind she could tell it was Jon.

"Jon?" She asked, but he just kept tugging on her hand. She tried to focus on the skin, but when she did she realized that it was cold in her grip. "Jon, you can't be dead!" She cried, taking panicked steps backward, trying to pull her hand from his, but the older boy kept walking, dragging her by her wrist until she was too tried and turned about to care. The second she stopped struggling, he was gone, and she fell to her knees.

"Arya!" A feminine voice called, and through the haze, she looked up and there, in front of her was the very moon itself, speaking her name, calling and asking for her attention. "Arya, help me with the chains!" And just because the moon spoke of it, there they were, dangling from either side. Her idled brain attempted to find something to breath the links, but her body already knew what it was to use, dripping the dagger in her hand and bringing it down sharply on both sides. As if freeing the moon took every drop of her strength, she fell to her knees again, the world swimming behind her eyes, blocking out anything else but the visions. Her face met the cold of the stone floor, and she was lost to the blue tide of the drug.


	3. A Name for Any God

**Author's Note:** Well, truth be told, I only got half the hits on this chapter. I'm not sure if that's because you all haven't had a chance to get to it or if you simply didn't like well enough to keep reading. If the former, I apologize for the turn around time, if the latter, well, I may have to reconsider the story...Nah! Eight times someone has deemed this good enough to review, so I shall keep going for those people. Remember though, reviews are like love. People can live without them, but oftentimes they grow cold hearted, evil, and kill off Jon Snow...any no one wants that. =P

**Chapter Three: A Name for Any God**

Arya stark woke to find herself swaying gently up and down with the smell of salt in her nose and a heavy weight on her right arm. She glanced down at it, confusion addling her brain at the dark head of hair. "The boy has not left your side." An unfamiliar voice echoed in her ear, and she jumped, pulling her hand out from under the boy's head. A maester stood in the corner of the room, a mug of something in his hands. He sniffed it and handed it over to the girl, who drank it with trepidation after she too gave it a wiff. "Where am I?" She asked, sitting up and noticing that the boy beside her was Gendry.

"Aboard The Siryn, headed for Westeros." He gestured for her to take another drink, and turned away to look out a small open window. "Daenerys thought you would rather be taken back to your family than to be left in Qarth. The boy said that was your intended destination. The Kahleesi hopes that she did not overstep her sister's wishes." He looked at Arya with a hard glance, playing emphasis on the word sister, as if Arya should take some greater meaning from it. She thought on the word for a moment, her mind trying to process. She had a sister as well, Sansa, but the two of them never worried about each other's wishes. Arya tried to think about who Daenerys's sister was, but from the rumors she could only remember a brother. "You'll be confused for a while. That tea you drank is dangerous, girl." He chided her and took the mug away again. "You're lucky that you woke. Jorah told me that you'd finished off a fairly large flagon before you went in again."

"Went in where?" Arya asked, confused by the changes in conversation.

"The House of the Undying." The maester said, as if she were slow.

"You almost got yourself killed." Gendry's voice was angry, and when Arya turned toward him he was scowling and very much awake. "You didn't even tell me. I had to find out from that Targaryen that you'd been talking about going to the tower. Do you know what you looked like when she drug you from that abyss?" He was seething now, spitting words at her as though they would penetrate her skin like crossbow bolts. "Do you know how dead you looked? Do you know-" He cut himself off and fled the cabin, letting a new gust of sea air into the room.

"What is going on?" Arya asked the air, trying to pull her thoughts together. She'd gone in after Daenerys again, but the door wouldn't appear for her. She'd taken another drink of the tea, and the stones had twisted away from each other, making an opening for her.

"You, my lady, will be staying in bed while I go find Daenerys. She'll explain everything." The maester left, and Arya considered the ceiling. The gentle swaying of the ship was making her sick, something that she hadn't experienced last time and quickly decided that she hated. She was contemplating getting up and finding the kitchen for whatever she'd given Gendry and Hot Pie before, but just as she was swinging her legs around the side of the bed, Daenerys walked in, a dragon on each shoulder and one perched in her hands. The pale cream and bronze animal locked eyes with her a moment, leaping from its mother's shoulder to land at the foot of her bed. She watched it move in awe, amazed by the way that it seemed to curl up just as Nymeria used to.

"I don't know how to thank you." Daenerys was stiff backed, as she sat on the side of her bed, petting a finger down the red and black dragon's neck. "You saved my dragons and then came back for me." Her eyes ducked to Arya's left hand, which was still clutching the twisted black dagger from the man with the kohl lined eyes. "I am in your debt. Ask anything of me, and it will be done." Her voice was overly formal, her eyes not leaving the dagger. Arya considered it for a moment. Her knuckles ached from the grip, and she idly wondered why no one had taken it from her.

"You don't owe me anything." Arya said, voice sharp. She hated these formalities, the way that people felt the need to measure debts. "You're taking me home. I need to find my family. That's all I want." She followed Daenerys's gaze and picked up the blade. She wasn't sure how, but the dark eyed man had reached thought the vale and given it to her.

"I know that weapon." Daenerys murmured, eyes starting to sting as Arya brought it closer to her for inspection. "Where did you find it?" The Kahleesi had taken the blade from her before Arya even knew she'd touched it.

"In the tower..." Arya struggled to put together what she knew to be impossible with what had to be possible. "A man with dark eyes gave it to me. He was holding a baby." She considered the blade and tried to remember the words that he'd spoken. "He said to save the moon and that I'd ride with horses." It wasn't right, but it was all that she could remember. Daenerys's shoulder slumped and she fell into tears, cradling the weapon to her chest as if it were something very dear to her.

"My sun and stars watches me even when he cannot see me." She murmured, and her dragons rested against her, rubbing their heads against whatever they could reach, trying to comfort her in the only way that they could. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am for this." Daenerys said between sobs. "Please, keep it. Blood of my blood, you will keep this, and my Sun and Stars will watch the both of us." Arya felt the blade pressed into her palm, and she gripped it, wincing as the sharp of the steel cut through her skin. Daenerys swiped the blade against her own palm, and fiercely locked their hands.

"Blood of my blood." Arya murmured, repeating what Daenerys had said. "What does it mean?" She asked as the Kahleesi pulled away, eyes shining with tears.

"It means, Arya Stark, that you and I are sisters, and we will be bound by blood until the day that we die." The words were determined, sharp and laced with something that made Arya's chest tighten. "A gift you've given me three times, sister. Ask anything and it will belong to you." Arya couldn't understand the emotion that flooded her, and she wasn't sure if it was the tea still changing her thoughts or if it was because she didn't understand who the man was to Kahleesi.

"I just want to go home." Arya murmured, feeling the ache of the emptiness in her stomach for the first time at the loss of her family.

"Then you will go home." Daenerys echoed, face set in a grim line. "There has been news of your home." She paused, as if fighting with herself on whether or not she was going to speak further. "It was taken from the Starks by a Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. He claims the keep as his own." Arya's face hardened at the news. There was only one Greyjoy that had ever set foot on Winterfell soil. She'd never liked Theon, but she didn't think he'd be capable of betraying her family. Of betraying Robb. At the thought of her brother, her heart dropped. Bran and Rickon would have been in Winterfell when it was taken.

"My brothers were there." She said, voice distant as her thoughts. Daenerys followed her line of thought quickly.

"I swear to you, Arya Stark, that we will take back what is yours before I take what is mine. We will both sit where we belong before I rest again." She reached out and pressed a hard palm against Arya's own, stinging the wound she'd made. "Blood of my blood. Remember that Arya." And somehow it was comforting when the pale girl promised her revenge. Arya tried to fight against the feeling that she should have taken Jaqen H'ghar up on his offer of becoming a faceless man. Blood seemed to be the only thing she knew anymore, whether from flesh or of the heart.

The vessel that Daenerys had bought was smaller than the trading vessel had been, but it moved much more quickly through the water. A few more Dothraki had joined them when they had heard of her over throw of Qarth, bringing with them more men who had heard of the Mother of Dragons and the way that Kahl Drogo had cried to the heavens that he would see his Kahleesi on the Iron Throne. A message had been sent from another Kahl-a cousin of Drogo that had left their kahleesar to make his own-that he would take his own ships and meet the Khaleesi Daenerys on the fields of battle in Westeros, should she still need his aid. There were rumors amongst those that joined her, rumors that their Khal's spirit could not ride with the Great Stallion until his oath was fulfilled. Daenerys had never liked hearing the Dothraki whisper about what was known, but for their help, she was willing to let them think that her husband would haunt them if they didn't carry out his wishes.

Arya was out on the deck in a few days time, making Gendry nervous as she climbed the netting and mast. Hot Pie was helping in the kitchens, and couldn't have been happier. Occasionally, Arya would catch Daenerys watching her with a little smile on her face. It made the youngest Stark daughter nervous at first, but after she grew tired of it one night and asked the woman why she did it, Arya nearly glowed in her gaze.

"Daenerys." Arya said, startling the girl out of her thoughts. "Why are you staring at me?" Arya was uncomfortable asking the question, which was probably why it had taken her a week to ask it. The pale haired woman had smiled and shook her head with a laugh.

"You're fearless." The Targaryen Queen explained. "Khal Drogo was fearless like you are. I've never seen it in anyone else." Daenerys sighed and leaned back against the stack of crates she was seated upon. There was no room for frivolity aboard the vessel, but her time with the Dothraki had taught her that there was a pleasure to simple things. She wore no silk or lace, but she was more comfortable in the leather and armor than she had ever been in the finest gown.

"Is that the kohl eyed man?" Arya asked before she could stop herself, but where Daenerys had cried at the mention of him before, now she smiled.

"He was my husband, the Kahl of the Dothraki." She smiled at his memory. "My brother arranged out marriage for control of his armies. Little good it did him." Arya sat cross legged on the deck by her knees. "He was fearless. He moved through flesh and bone and ruled his people. He loved me, and I loved him." Daenerys was lost in her memories, speaking as if to the air. "He swore that our child would sit on the Iron throne. The seer saw that a child of mine would be the Stallion that Mounts the World." She stopped smiling at that.

"And I remind you of him?" Arya asked, caught up in the fact that she would remind the Khaleesi of someone like her Khal.

"Yes, blood of my blood." Daenerys shook herself from thoughts of her unborn child. "You do." They didn't speak of Khal Drogo again that night, but every time Arya moved, she tried to live up to the comparison. It was not something that Gendry enjoyed. The boy stood on the deck, too afraid or level headed to follow her up to the crow's nest or to walk along the mast as she did. Arya couldn't blame him for the latter, as he was much larger than she, and couldn't fit into the tighter places that she could, however she did feel weighed down by his presence. Each time she leapt from one rigging to the next, he cried out at her to be careful. With every rung higher on the mast, he cautioned her footsteps. Every breath she took before leaning too far over the railing to wet her far with sea spray was echoed in his own chest, as if she was going to fall in, and he was preparing himself to jump in to catch her.

When the Westeros shore first started coming into view, Arya had been the one to spot it, eager and waiting, from the crow's nest. She'd shouted down to Daenerys who had far more slowly climbed up to join her, wearing her leather armor that Arya had grown accustomed to seeing her in. "See, just there!" Arya pointed with her hand, indicating a jutting of land that had come into view. "We're too far south, I think." Her face soured, as she noted the vessels coming in and out of the port. "There aren't any trading ports like that in the North." As if the helmsman had read her mind, the vessel turned and started more northerly, following the coastline.

They continued on North for another two days before Arya recognized one of the banners. They were entirely too close to shore, skimming along the reefs as only a small vessel like theirs could, when Arya noticed the first of her father's bannermen's sigil flying. They let the vessel coast further North until the wind and tide allowed them to dock amongst the reefs and move their men ashore on the rowboats-of which the vessel only had two, lengthening the process.

"Do you know this land, Sister?" Daenerys asked, eyeing the harsh landscape and cursing the chill of the air. Arya considered the terrain a moment, and trying to picture the maps that had been drilled into Bran and Robb's minds while she'd spied on, pretending to work on her sewing.

"I believe so." Arya said, feeling the chill creep into her bones. "Your men need more clothes." A few of the Dothraki laughed, having understood her concern. A few of them accepted warmer cloaks from the hull of the ship, but for the most part, they refused, muttering something in Dothraki that Arya could only capture a few words from. The walking was far more monotonous than the ship had been, but as the terrain grew more and more familiar, Arya's heart sank further. A smoke was in the air, and in the distance she could see thick black clouds billowing up from the earth.

"It burns." A Dothraki warrior muttered to another in the common tongue, eyeing Arya with a mixture of annoyance and pity. Arya had ignored it, but the words echoed through out her own mind. Theon Greyjoy had taken Winterfell, that was known, but had the Iron Borne heir burn his own home? The answer came too soon. Jorah saw it first, the tops of the Keep, wood charred away, standing as nothing but stone. He'd murmured to Daenerys, whose eyes immediately flew to the youngest amongst them. Gendry was the next to notice, gripping Arya's elbow, and pulling her back in the procession.

"What?" Arya asked, anxiety making her words sharp. There was something in the base of her throat, begging to be let out.

"Arya, maybe we should let the Dothraki go first. If Theon's men are there-" Gendry's voice was too calm, and it made her panic.

"I am a Stark." She replied, voice hard, eyes turning toward where she knew the Keep was hiding just behind a corpse of trees. "I won't let anyone fight my battles for me." She kept walking until she saw what everyone else had seen. Betrayal and horror settled into her and she was running before she knew she'd taken her next step. Despite her stature and the athleticism of the Dothraki, she was kneeling in the ash stained snow before any of them had come through the gates behind her.

She eyed the grey muck at her knees, where she'd collapsed. No one had seen what caused her silence yet. Or perhaps they simply didn't know as she knew. The way the one boy's legs hung too limp. The size of the two charred bodies. The smell of it in her nostrils and the churning in her gut. She wasn't sure when the rest of them caught up to her. She wasn't sure when Gendry knelt at her side, and laid a hand on her shoulder. All she was sure of was that something inside of her had broken.

Joffrey.

Cersei.

Ilyn Payne.

The Hound.

Polliver.

The Tickler.

Theon Greyjoy.

"Theon Greyjoy!" She cried to the sky, to Jaqen H'ghar, to the Red God himself. "The girl names Theon Greyjoy!" She cried again, slumping to her hands and knees, rage shaking her body. Gendry tried to pull her into him, but she would not be moved. The Dothraki muttered amongst themselves, but none of the words were heard by the youngest Stark.

"She is death." One of them muttered to the next, and the Khaleesi silenced them quickly.

"She is mourning." She corrected, but it was clear that it was more than that when the girl leapt to her feet and pulled a coin from her belt, holding it to the sky and shouting, "Jaqen H'ghar!" She cried, "Jacqen H'ghar, a girl gives a man a name! A girl gives a man the name Theon Greyjoy!" The words were screamed, and she knew that she sounded mad, but she kept shouting. "Valar Morghulis!" She cried, finally falling into herself in silence, repeating her cries to herself now.

The proceeding hours did not exist. No one spoke of them. No one judged the girl for her tears or for her cries of anger to the Red God. The Dothraki had seen bloodlust in the past, and as the girl raged inside herself over the next few hours, their whispers about her being Death only grew. Arya would lay down that night in the snow, refusing to move into the stone Keep that had remained standing or to even allow anyone to build a fire to keep her warm, threatening the man who had asked with Drogo's dagger. She did not sleep.

"Joffrey. Cersei. The Hound. Polliver. The Tickler. Tywin Lannister. Theon Greyjoy." She kept murmuring long into the night. In the morning, when the sun had come up, she had pulled more names from the air around her. Jaqen H'ghar-or the man who wore his face-had been right. The girl had many names on her lips to offer the Red God.

***Scene Change***

Jon Snow stumbled along through his namesake, a coldness in his chest that he'd never felt before. He'd run a man through just moments ago. His blade had been bathed in the blood of one of his sworn Brothers, a mentor, a ranger, a teacher. His hands were unbound. Someone else had his blade, a blade given to him by a name who trusted him to uphold the oath of the knight's watch. And now...and now he had killed his sworn brother and was being taken to the King Beyond the Wall. He'd come to the wall to bring honor to his father, and now he had done the furthest thing. He'd be beheaded, that much was certain, if he was allowed to return to the Wall. Would Robb swing the sword? He couldn't stop that thought from echoing through his mind.

Ygritte was watching him, leading him through the treacherous terrain as though she knew that he was not watching where his feet were falling. She tugged at his elbow once to make sure he didn't step into a crevasse, but he never stopped letting the mantra run through his head. Will Rob swing the sword that takes me head? They were amongst the Wildlings, some clawing at him in hatred, others fawning over Ygritte for one reason or another, Jon wasn't sure why. He thought he'd heard something about a kiss of fire, but it passed through one ear as quickly as it came in the other. I deserve this. I will deserve it if Mance Rayder kills me here. And he longed for it. Some part of him ached to die here, in the North, alone, where he was sure his body would be burned and he wouldn't become a White Walker. Where he wouldn't have to kneel in front of Robb and confess his sins, sins that would place a further black spot on the House of Stark.

"Pull your head out of your ass, Snow!" Ygritte chided him, pushing him in front of her into a large tent. He ducked his head at the last moment, to keep it from colliding with the tarp that hung over the door. "Mance Rayder will want to see you. The Lord of Bones has already met with him." Had they traveled as far as all that already? He wondered at how he'd made it so far without thinking. A man was seated on a throne in front of him, and for the very life in his veins, he didn't know how he ended up kneeling in the snow covered dirt.

"Who is this?" The man asked, voice much more level headed than Jon had imagined a Wildling leader's would be.

"Jon Snow." Ygritte said his name firm, as though simply by giving it volume it made him more impressive. "He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his hands bound!" A murmur was taken up by the dozen or so Wildlings that had surrounded them. Jon eyed them, realizing they were there for the first time. A conversation ensued between Ygritte and Mance Rayder, but Jon didn't hear it. In fact, he didn't hear anything other than his sentencing.

"Jon Snow." Mance shouted, drawing his attention from his mental beratement. "Boy of the Watch." That itched at the back of his mind. "Bastard of the Lady Beyond the Wall, I will give you the gift of your life in exchange for carrying a message." Jon raged mentally. Kill me. Anything but sending me back.

"Answer him!" Ygritte shouted in his ear, her familiar voice shaking him from his thoughts.

"Yes." Jon spat out the only word he could think of.

"Tell the ones claiming to be Kings in the South that their true King is coming, and that he will not squabble like a child. Tell them that he will let the White Walkers march through their lands, killing them all, and then he will take what they leave to waste in the Long Sleep." He was a large man, Jon finally decided. Too much beard and belly. Too much time away from the Wall. Jon almost laughed. A fat man was the King Beyond the Wall. He idly wondered if Joffrey had gained the rotund stature that seemed to accompany all men who claimed to be Kings. "Do you not beg for your life, boy?" He asked at last, stepping down off of his thrones to stare Jon in the eye. That was a question he knew how to answer.

"No. I'd beg you take it." His words were as empty as he felt. A hush fell over the room, and one of the Wildling shouted something that Jon couldn't make out.

"And why boy, would you do something as foolish as that?" Mance crouched down in front of him, staring at him hard. "Tell me boy, do you mourne Halfhand?" He asked but he already knew the answer. "Don't. I knew Qhorin Halfhand, and I'll tell you one thing that might lift your spirits. Qhorin wanted you to kill him. He knew what I'd do if you didn't." And in that moment, Jon saw through something that was not his own eyes. It was red and orange mixed with greys and whites. He saw himself and Mance Rayder crouched on the floor. He saw himself clench his fists, and in the moment that he knew the stance to his own body being one of attack, he was back again, holding his hands at his sides in restraint. "What was that boy?" He demanded, standing up and spinning in a wide circle.

"What was what?" He asked, unsure of it himself.

"A Warg!" He shouted to the Wildlings. "You bring me a Warg!" He turned back to Jon, who was still as lost as he'd been moments ago. "Did you not see that he could slip!" A heavy boot came down on his upper back and he was forced to his stomach. Now Mance Rayder would kill him. Whatever he'd done, he welcomed it. The low growl that echoed throughout the tent he'd first thought to be the Wildlings. When all else fell silent, he looked up. No blade had fallen, and instead of the shadow of Mance Rayder, he lay in Ghost's shadow.

"Ghost." He murmured. "Ghost, run." But the direwolf did not flee. Instead, the large white beast idled forward, paws still too large for his body, a sure sign that he was still growing. Jon Snow had never feared for his life, never thought he'd beg for it, but in that moment, something about the anxiety in the wolf's gaze made a desire for life spark in his stomach.

"Back!" Mance shouted as his Wildlings came forward, spears and bows at the ready. "Back, you idiots!" And he was of the North then, truly and totally of the places in the ice and snow. "A direwolf and his Warg." Mance murmured, eyeing the Lord of Bones and Ygritte for a moment. He made an odd gesture with his hands, and nodded not to Jon, but to Ghost. "Take him! Take him back to the Wall and let it be known that I am coming!" He lashed out with his boot, catching Jon at the delicate junction between his neck and shoulder. A numbness sparked down his arm, but it was quickly replaced with pain.

"If you let the boy go back-" The Lord of Bones had probably never been struck so soundly in his life as Mance Rayder laid him out, and axe protruding from the skull helmet her wore, surely what had caused his namesake.

"Anyone else want to challenge my decision?" Rayder shouted, arms out wide and waiting. Ghost didn't seem interested in the goings on anymore, and was instead snuffing at Jon's hair. Ygritte pulled him to his feet and stared at him longer than she should have. "The White Walkers will have already been to your Wall, Jon Snow." Rayder gave a viscous little laugh, and the Stark bastard felt the truth of it settle in his stomach. "If I were you Southerners, I'd burn the whole damned continent." He nodded to someone over Jon's shoulder, and as soon as Jon realized the gesture had meant something, the hilt of a sword crashed into his skull, ending any worry that he might have had about the White Walkers or his own life.

What he remembered then came in glimpses, some of it in the plain harsh colors of the Northern landscape, others in the odd reds and oranges that he had seen while in Rayder's tent. He was laid over something warm and moving, and for a moment he thought it was a horse. That was foolish though. Horses didn't survive north of the Wall.

It was the third time he woke that he realized what he was laying over. Ghost had gotten larger, that much was for sure. The direwolf walked on with Jon's wait across his shoulders as though he weighed nothing. Ygritte was walking beside him, the odd shoes she wore making it easier for her to keep up with the wolf's pace. "Ygritte?" He asked, but before the girl even turned to him, he was gone again.

It was perhaps the fourth time he woke-or was it the fifth?-that the Wall came into view. He noticed the tracks before he noticed that the gate was open and no one was on watch. There had been no horn sounding their approach. Fear shot through him and he tried to straighten, only succeeding in falling off of Ghosts back in a thump. "Oh, aye, that's a great idea, Snow!" Ygritte teased him. "Roll around in it, see if ya' can freeze to death before I have to take ya' further South." He climbed quickly to his feet, Ghost giving him an appreciative glance at being rid of his weight.

There were no other voices, and it didn't take long for Jon to realize that they were alone, just on the north side of the Wall. "What happened?" The Stark bastard asked, but Ygritte was quiet for too long. "What happened?" He demanded, stating each word like a sentence as he sometimes did when he spoke with Rickon. The Wildling woman walked on for a moment, moving through the broken gate.

"The White Walkers been through here, Snow." Ygritte finally told him. "Mance said ta take ya' South until I found a place they'd not been yet." Ygritte swallowed something, wincing as if in pain. "Don't much like the idea of crossing the Wall." She said, as if trying to simply make conversation, something that Jon found more and more irritating as they moved onward. "Do ya suppose the old men hid in their rooms, pissin' themselves when the Walkers came?" She asked, turning to look at him as she walked backwards. "Or was it the other way around? Did the boys sit in their own shite as the old men took up swords?" There was a smile on her freckled face.

"Shut up." Jon hissed as they soldiered on through the underground passageway. "The Knight's Watch is a-"

"A holy order of pig fuckers, yeah, yeah I know." Ygritte cut him off, preferring the sound of her own voice to his annoyance. They passed under the wall in silence, Jon shocked by the lack of guards or the sounding of the horn. When they reached the other side, it was clear why the horn hadn't been blown: no one who stood on the Wall lived. At first it was as if they were playing a bad joke on him, and sooner or later someone would jump from behind him and shout something about White Walkers. A few long minutes later the panic set in. Ygritte watched as Jon Snow made a fool of himself, running from the lifts to the barracks, yelling and waiting.

It was Ghost that finally made him stop, standing in his path and whinging low in his chest. The massive direwolf had grown significantly over the months Jon had spent at the wall, its head now easily reaching his chest. "Ghost." Jon murmured, looking around him for any sign of his fallen Brothers. The only trace were footprints, and even those were being quickly covered by the blowing snow.

The Wildling woman knew a thing or two about grief. She knew loss and betrayal and rage. She knew tears and mourning as well as any woman of the North. Afterall, hadn't her parents been taken from her? Hadn't Mance Rayder let his eyes run over her freckled and red hair, proclaiming her Kissed by Fire and taken her from them as his own? Oh, yes. Yes, he had, and yes, she did. And so, as Jon snow fell to his knees and dropped his head in mourning over the loss of his Brethren, she simply waited, built a fire, and systematically set all the wooden buildings ablaze. Snow did not try and stop her. Snow did not even realize that the fire was melting the snow around them until his knees were soaked through.

"What did you do?" He asked in a stupor, Ghost resting heavily against his side, the large wolf trying to provide a comfort to its master.

"The men the Others take are worse than dead. You know its fire that can kill them, why do you think?" Of course she was right, but that didn't mean that it was easy to watch the one place he thought he was to have a home for life burn. "Only fire can kill the Walkers, remember that, Jon Snow." And she set her jaw in a firm line. Oh, yes, the Wildling Ygritte knew all about fire.

They stayed at the Wall for hours, and with each passing moment, something in Jon changed. Deeper than he'd ever thought he could feel, something shifted, and just like that, he was no longer Jon Snow of the Knight's Watch. He was no longer Jon Snow of Winterfell, or Jon Snow, Eddard Stark's bastard. The world was in colors that he'd never seen, he smelt things that he had never smelled, and in his own ears, he could hear his heart beat and the easy breaths that the red hair took. He stopped at that thought. The red hair? He'd never considered he that before. Swiveling his head, he found that he saw himself, and in that startling moment, he was Jon Snow yet again. All of the things that he'd cast off came back to him, and he bowed his head anew with grief.

It was not long thereafter that Ygritte demanded that they start moving again. She'd sworn to Mance Rayder that she would see him back to his own people. If that meant going further south and away form the frozen tundra of her life, more the merrier. Their journey was quiet for the next several days, a few of the horses of the Wall had scattered when the Walkers had attacked, slowly returning when they sensed that danger was no longer at their home. Jon had salvaged a few saddles from the smoldering stables, and they rode with nothing but the sound of hoof on snow.

Ygritte, for her part, was about to castrate or kiss the boy, she wasn't sure which. He was too quiet, but hadn't she liked that about him? Hadn't she enjoyed trying to make him react, do, say, act, when she was his prisoner. She decided now that she didn't like it. Alone, in an unfamiliar land, she wanted his voice, his assurances, and yes, even his kind words. None of them came, but she did not expect them. After all, no Wildling would spare her such words, why should a bastard of the South? She sighed to the skies and prayed to whatever Gods that watched over the land. She prayed to the old, the new, the nameless, and the named. She prayed to the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, to the God of Light that the Braavosi seemed to favor. She prayed to the Dothraki Horse God and the Assiri Goddess of the plains. Lastly, she prayed to whomever Jon Snow prayed to, and in a blush condemned them all. There were no Gods, of that she was certain. If there were, no Other would ever take something from someone who had already lost so much.

Author's Note: Well guys, I've been blessed with four reviews a chapters, and nearly ten times that amount of alerts and favorites. I'm glad that you are all enjoying the story, and while any feedback is welcome, I would love more reviews. I'm willing to beg...honestly, you have to hit the review button to do the alerting and favoriting, so why not just drop me a teensy little note about what you thought? Unless of course, you don't have fingers and are using chop sticks in your mouth, in that instance, no need. I understand. ^_^


	4. Not Today

**Author's Note:** You all have no idea how awesome it was to get so many reviews last chapter! I almost didn't want to put this one up, as I still had reviews coming in, but I told myself that you all deserved it. I have chapter five already written, so gimme some lovin' and I'll post it probably by Thursday...maybe sooner if you ask nicely ^_~. Someone brought up that they feared that Arya was becoming too single minded, and I do see where that would be a problem to a reader. However, I feel that Arya is headed this way in the show at this point. I hate stories that take a character developing along route A and all of a sudden change them to route F. Don't worry though...I rather like Arya in the coming chapters. Oh, also, for those of you asking about certain characters meeting, its coming. Be prepared! (Insert Scar's voice "for the death of the king!")

Chapter Four: Not Today

They buried the bodies, or what had been left of them, out by the God's Wood. The Dothraki had been uneasy about the place, but under the eye of their Kahleesi-or perhaps it was their own fear of being called coward-they helped to dig graves and lay bodies down into them. Arya had started on Bran and Rickon's graves with her hands, refusing even the most basic tools that the Dothraki offered. By the end of the first grave, her nails were embedded with filth and blood was started at the tips of her fingers. By the end of the second, she could no longer feel the aching bones or the blood that caked her hands and made the dirt into mud.

She did let Jorah help her cut down the tarred bodies and lay them down into the graves. She wasn't sure who covered them with dirt and stones. She wasn't sure of much for the next few hours, simply that half of her brothers were now in the ground, and the other half were at war against either a faceless evil or a very real Tywin Lannister. And it was Tywin, she had to remind herself, that commanded the army. It was easy, while in his presence, to not hate him. He'd saved Gendry. He'd taken her from the slave pen and had given her a purpose. He'd spoken with her of things she'd always wanted to speak of. Her opinion-for some reason-had mattered to him. Sometimes, when she was sitting up at night, muttering her names, she forgot Tywin Lannister's.

It was Gendry that made her part from her grief. The blacksmith's apprentice had sat with her throughout the day, leaving only to bring back a heavier cloak to drape over her shoulders. In the setting sun, he knelt next to her, and without preamble, shoved her hard into the dirt. "Stop it! What are you doing?" She bit out the words before she could even thing of how to react, but he did not answer her. Instead, he pushed her again, sending her skittering backward on her hands and buttocks. "Gendry, stop it!" She cried, climbing to her feet, meeting his next shove with one of her own.

"Are you going to quit?" He asked her, voice hard and biting, meant to hurt her. "Are you going to give up?" He shoved her to the ground again, but this time she sprang up much more quickly. She could hear Syrio in the back of her mind, demanding that she get up, try again, push harder. So she did. The wicked blade was out from its loop at her side and was slashing through Gendry's shirt before she even knew she'd drawn it. It was only by slipping backward and sideways that he avoided being gutted. "That's it!" He shouted, egging her on. "Give up. We'll bury you here, by your brothers!"

"Arya!" Someone called in the distance, but it was only Gendry's nagging voice that she heard, and even that was quickly changing. What do we say to the God of Death?

"Not today." She murmured, slashing and lunging, pushing with her arms when Gendry was too close-too strong for her smaller frame. "Not today." She said it louder, kicking him harshly in the stomach when he pinned her on her back.

"Are you giving up?" He asked, holding a hand to his hip where she'd managed to just cut the skin. "Have you given up!" The last one wasn't a question, but it sparked more of the need to answer than any of his questions ever had.

"Not today!" She cried, lashing out wildly. It was the clatter of steel on steel that drew her from herself. One of the Dothraki men had stepped between them, blade drawn only to block her dagger. Daenerys was behind him, eyes wide and watching.

"Arya?" She asked, and the girl dropped to her knees, tears running down her face for the first time since she'd sprinted through the burned gates of Winterfell.

"Not today." Arya murmured and Gendry squatted down in front of her, a smile on his face.

"There you are." He joked, pushing lightly on her shoulder so she'd look at him. "Thought I'd lost you for a while." She didn't laugh, but the tears stopped, and in the clarity of her pain she knew why he'd done what he'd done. "Come on." He held his hand out, and she took it, truly appreciating his quiet strength for the first time since he'd helped her on their way to the Wall.

"Let's go." Arya agreed, sliding the twisted blade back into the oddly fashioned sling at her hip. The man who had blocked her blow muttered something and clapped her on the shoulder, nearly sending her sprawling again. He turned and walked away, completely unaware of the glare that would have killed him it if were possible. "What did he say?" Arya asked Daenerys, who was standing still, wide eyed, her dragons perched on her arms and shoulder.

"Strong." Daenerys heard herself translate, and she couldn't help but agree. There had been something there, when the girl had lashed out, something that the Dothraki had called her earlier. Death. Daenerys shook it from her head and gave the girl a comforting smile.

"Arya, where would you go?" The Khaleesi asked, and it didn't take long for the now youngest Stark to know.

"South. To River Run." Arya answered, remembering that Tywin Lannister had sworn about Robb Stark taking River Run before he could defend his position. "My brother and mother will be there. I have to tell them, if they don't already know." Arya glanced up at Daenerys, who was walking beside her now, eyes flickering toward her once or twice every few steps.

"You have a large family." Daenerys murmured, trying to draw from the loss that she'd discovered.

"I do." Arya replied, nodding. "And they're all being betrayed." They walked away from the God's wood in silence, Gendry following a few steps behind, watching the shorter of the two. He'd heard her murmuring names in her sleep. He'd seen the way that she had given herself up to the shouting of names and the silent begging to a man that was not there. He hated Jaqen H'ghar. He hated that man more than he'd ever hated anyone. If he'd had just left Arya alone when they'd fled the Red Keep maybe the hatred wouldn't have bubbled up inside her. The words were in the back of his mind. He'd promised her, in his actions and in his heart, he'd promised to keep her safe. Now he wasn't sure if he was defending her from Tywin Lannister, Theon Greyjoy, or herself. They walked back under the gates of Winterfell, and this time she didn't look to the ropes that still hung from a crossbar. She kept walking up to the keep and disappeared inside, Daenerys standing still outside, watching where the men had gathered.

"Your men are afraid of her." Gendry murmured, eyeing the way that the Dothraki avoided the keep and the place where she'd stood vigil throughout the night. Daenerys watched them for a few moments and smiled.

"The Dothraki don't fear anything." She replied, voice firm. "They're omens changed." Gendry didn't understand the way the pale girl smiled and walked over to the men who were sharpening their weapons and painting on eye kohl. Gendry watched her go, confused by her talk of omens.

"The Dothraki ride to war when their omens favor it." Gendry turned quickly to find Jorah standing behind him, a hand on his sword, as he watched Daenerys be enveloped in the men and women that followed her. "The Khal had promised Daenerys's brother a throne, when their omens spoke for war, but he was taken from her by infection. Even after crying to the gods for war, their omens did not change." Jorah paused and considered Gendry as if he were looking upon him for the first time. "You look familiar, boy." He shook himself and turned back to his Kahleesi. "After the Stark girl saw her brother tarred and burned, and she slept out, muttering her names through the night, their omens changed. They cry for war, and when the Dothraki omens demand something, the entire khaleesar will follow until it is finished."

"So they're going to war because Arya lost her brothers?" Gendry asked, confused as to how an entire tribe of warriors would wage war on a girl's cries.

"Not her loss, but perhaps the omens changed because she begged the Red God." Jorah chuckled. "Gods be good boy, that girl will avenge her family. The Dothraki are people of war. Even their weddings are a deadly affair."

"Arya was upset. She doesn't have to be blamed for a war."

"Open your eyes boy, there's already a war on." Jorah sighed and disappeared into the keep.

***Scene Change***

Jon had been riding for the better part of three days when Ygritte started complaining of the heat. He ignored the girl at first, as she seemed to talk mostly for herself, but when she started shedding her heavy parka he took notice. The Wildlings didn't own lighter clothing, and the heavy wool underneath held more heat than anything he wore on a regular basis below his cloak.

"By the gods, Snow, how do you put up with it?" She asked, eyeing his cloak with a flush to her cheeks.

"It's cold." He replied, swaying in the saddle to run his fingers along the branch of a pine tree. The snow was still firm and heavy. "Winter is coming." He murmured and laughed at her when she huffed and looked away from him. "We'll be in Winterfell tomorrow." He made conversation, knowing how the Wildling loved their banter.

"Aye, and the sooner I drop you with your kind the sooner I get back to mine." It had become an old game between them, declaring how much each hated the other. If Jon were being honest with himself, he enjoyed her company when she wasn't complaining.

"We'll get you back beyond the wall as soon as we find Robb." Jon replied, unsure of where his half-brother would be. If he knew the eldest Stark, he would be halfway across the continent, the banner-men at his back, shooting arrows up over the battlements of King's Landing and praying for one to hit Joffry by sheer luck.

"We won't be doing any, Snow." Ygritte retorted. "I told Mance Rayder I'd see you safely with your Southern men away from the White Walkers, I won't be marchin' up to your brother and handin' you over on bent knee." The red headed girl snorted and threw hear head back, relishing in the way the bitter cold in her bones seemed to disappear this far south.

"Half-brother." Jon murmured, remembering the way that Robb had hugged him that day in Winterfell, but not attempted to change his mind. There had been good times, growing up, when they were younger, that Jon felt as though Robb was his true brother. As he got older, and Caitlyn's disdain became more apparent, he felt something shift away. He'd found a brother at the wall, he'd found more than one, and they were as dead as his father was now.

"You southerners and your rules." Ygritte muttered. "If a man is your blood and you would die for him, he's your brother." She turned in the saddle, ignoring the ache in her legs and hips. "Would you die for Robb Stark?" She asked, pulling the memory of his name from one of their earlier discussions.

"I would die for any of them." Jon said, voice as hard and ungiving as stone. "Even Lady Stark." A vague memory of Caitlyn nursing him back to health as a child played out in the back of his mind.

"And would any of them die for you?" The red head pushed, nearly falling from the saddle when the horse she rode upon skittered sideways to avoid a rabbit that had leapt from the brush. Jon considered it a moment. Bran and Rickon were too young to die for anyone. Sansa hated him more than Caitlyn, and Robb knew the value of his life was more than the value of a bastard's. He caught on Arya. The girl with the fierce eyes and the even fiercer love. Arya Stark might die for him, but he would never give her the chance.

"No." He replied, firm in the fact that his words would be true. Ygritte muttered something under her breath and turned back around, convinced that Jon Snow as a liar. They rode on in silence for the rest of the day, Ghost cornering a boar and ripping its throat clean out. They had hacked off pieces of flesh and cooked them over a low fire. Sleep came and went, and the next day was half gone when Ygritte started asking him about the soot in the snow. Jon ignored her, riding on at a faster pace, trying to keep his heels from kicking the animal beneath him into a gallop.

***Scene Change***

Theon Greyjoy had woken with a bag over his head, kicking and spitting curses and obscenities. It was his sister that drew the sack from his his eyes and looked down on him in condescension. "Let your own men hog-tie you, aye brother?" She asked, leaning down and flaunted the sack in his face. "Good thing I caught you."

Theon looked about him, taking in the snow and the blood that stained it. His sister was standing in front of him, a spear in her hand and a smile on her face. A few of his men stood behind her, with fifty or sixty of her own. The rest were laying dead in the snow. "What the fuck is going on?" He yelled, eyeing his sister and several of the men that had been following him.

"The men wanted to go home, apparently." Asha said, throwing her head back in a chuckle. "I talked it over with our lord father, and he wants Wintefell. Robb Stark is going to fall to the Lannisters, and he wants Winterfell for himself when that happens." She gestured behind her with her hands outstretched. "We're going to take it." The men rallied behind her, cheering and jeering. "There were a few in the woods, but we took care of them. Winterfell is only an hours march from here, and there are a few of the Stark's banner-men around it, you pissed off many a man when you killed the Stark boys."

"I had to!" Theon cried, panic worrying his eyes. "They were-"

"Not the Stark boys." One of his men murmured, and Asha turned toward him.

"Not the Starks?" She asked, turning back toward Theon with a smirk on her face. "Couldn't find the little wolves so you did what? Took some orphan boys off the street and pretended that they were the little whelps?"

"I had to control them!" Theon spat out, coming to his feet and rubbing at the area where the ropes were tied about his hands. "They ran, and I couldn't let the people think I let them escape." Asha smiled wider.

"So you just burned down Winterfell and waiting for Robb Stark to come back and kill you, was that your plan brother?" She asked, pulling out a dagger from her belt and using it to cut through the bonds more roughly than needed.

"It was better than losing their respect beca-"

"Respect?" One of his men bit out. "You never had their respect, and why should you want it? You had fear, and by burning those boys you gave them nothing left to lose." Theon drew the sword that hung at his belt in challenge, but quickly found himself on his backside again, his sister's booted foot on his chest.

"Calm down, brother." She murmured, patting him condescendingly on his cheek. "We'll take back your little castle, and when we do, you'll be in charge of rebuilding what you broke." She smiled at his outraged face. "You think father wants a burned keep?" She asked, but Theon didn't reply. Instead he settled back against the snow in outrage. Theon Greyjoy had attempted to gain his father's respect by taking Winterfell, and ended up losing it to his sainted sister. If there were Gods, he was certain they hated him.

"If we're going to take Winterfell, let's take it!" He shouted, standing up, trying to save some of the face that he'd lost.

"Not right now, brother, but today." Asha replied, a grim smile on her salt worn face.


	5. A Clash of Iron and Blood

**Author's Note: **Well guys, this chapter originally was half the length, and several of the scenes didn't happen. A few people have expressed some Arya love interest, so I've given you a bit of that here. I'm not sure if I'm happy with it, so let me know what you think. Also, 30 review for 4 chapters? AWESOME! You guys are amazing!

Arya felt better after her fight with Gendry, and for that she almost felt worse. Her brothers were dead, her sister hostage at the side of a mad king, her beloved half-brother was away at a wall of ice, and Robb was leading men when he out have been wooing women and playing at swordsmanship in the practice yard. And she, Arya Stark, was having an adventure with Daenerys Targaryen and serving wine and pork to the grandfather of the boy responsible for it all. A dark cloud settled on her shoulders at the thought. She wished that she'd come through the gates to find Theon, sword in hand and waiting. At least then she could have looked the boy in the eye as she cried ou this name. Maybe taken it from him.

The inside of Winterfell was more untouched than the out. The old keep was made almost entirely from stone, and the few things that did burn were easily remade: tables, benches, bed frames and clothes. What really was Winterfell, what really was the keep in the North, remained standing. She found herself in the crypt before she even knew she'd gone, looking up at the statues of the men and women who had come before. It was common practice to bury their fallen wherever they must, but to have a statue built in their honor, in the family crypt.

Arya sat at the feet of her father-the building of his statue was only partially completed, but his face had been carved from the rock before Theon Greyjoy had come to Winterfell. She stared up at his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the way that even in the stone he looked kind and wise and just. It was as though by simply looking on his face she was better for it. Something in his gaze calmed her, and she found herself sleeping on the stone.

In her dreamland, Arya Stark was running through the woods faster than she'd ever moved even atop one of her father's horses. There was the smell of blood in her nose, growing stronger and stronger as she ran, eyes searching for the source. An anxiety crept up in her chest, as if she knew that if she didn't get close enough soon enough, something terrible would happen. As the thought formed in her mind, her feet no longer made contact in the ground, and just like that, she was flying. Something soared up into her throat and she crossed far more ground in a few seconds than she had done while she'd ran.

A battle unfolded underneath her and the anxiety escaped from her. She'd made it in time, and something had changed for it, though she couldn't tell what. Just as she was lowered to the ground and men stopped slashing each other open to stare at her in awe, she woke. Her torch had burned out, but there was something in the darkness that shone. "Hey." Gendry's voice echoed down the tomb. Her dagger was shining in his hand, and he was watching it to avoid watching her.

"How long was I asleep?" She asked, angry that she'd been caught napping.

"You were gone a few hours before I came to find you." He half answered her question, took a deep breath, and continued. "You've been out half an hour or so since I got here." He looked like he wanted to say something else, and it annoyed Arya that he was holding his tongue.

"What?" She asked, voice chipped and hard.

"You were holding this." He gestured to the dagger, remembering the sting of it against his hip, the area still tender and aching. Arya glanced down a moment, eyeing the blade and remembered the feel of it in her hand, cutting through air and flesh...flesh.

"I hurt you." She murmured, dropping her eyes to the stone. She'd been so angry, and she'd forgotten that the blade had cut him. He didn't say anything for a while, and her guilt grew, morphed and weighed on her.

"Yes," he finally replied, and her heart fell further. "You did, but I don't care." She eyed him warily, not believing that he'd forgive so quickly.

"Where?" She asked, coming to her knees and leaning across the narrow passage, coming close enough to make out his face and his form, leaning against the stone that would one day be her father's knees. When Gendry didn't respond, she demanded again. "Where?" He gestured vaguely at his trunk, and Arya grabbed at his shirt, pulling and tugging, fighting him with each bit of flesh that was exposed. "Show me." She ordered, and the blacksmith sighed and leaned back, gripping her hands and pulling them away from his clothing.

"Alright." He soothed. "Alright." And in the dark, she grimaced as he tugged his shirt up and over his head. She'd seen Gendry half naked before, she wasn't shocked by the firmness of his abdomen or the premature musculature that was forming there. What did shock her were the two thin wounds that she'd left. One was across his abdomen, thin and shallow. It was red, raised, and almost as though a cat had scratched him. She remembered swinging that blow, she'd thought he'd stepped back quickly enough. The one on his hip was deeper, and disappeared under the waist of his trousers, red and angry. He'd put a dressing over the top of it, but she made him remove it for her eyes. When it had disappeared below the expanse of cloth at his waist, she was torn. She wanted to see the damage she'd done. She wanted to know exactly how much damage she'd done, and how long she'd be repaying the debt.

"Show me." She murmured, and Gendry chuckled. He leaned back and rolled the side of his trousers down, exposing another two inches of flesh on his hip and the jagged wound that marred the pale skin there. "I'm sorry." She murmured, sitting back on her butt, eyes not leaving the wound.

"Don't." He replied easily, picking his shirt up and putting the arms through the holes.

"Don't." She mimicked, grabbing his hand and tugging him down the crypt. "I'll fix it." She was determined, walking fast enough that he had to take longer strides to keep up.

"Arya, its really fine." He was laughing at her, and it only made her angrier. "Arya-" He tried to pull her to a stop, but she just turned about, face in a grimace.

"Don't 'Arya' me!" She shouted, running a hand through her short hair in annoyance. "I did that." She pointed a finger toward his hip, angry with herself and him for picking the fight. "I hurt you, Gendry. Me!" She pivoted away from him, not wanting him to see the tears that were stinging her eyes. For all her attempts to hide it, he knew her body language too well by now to be fooled. They stood in silence for a while, the blacksmith's apprentice sighed finally, and moved, gripping her shoulders and turning her around.

"Arya." He sighed again and really looked at the girl. She'd gotten taller since he met her, but she was still just a girl, barely thirteen years old. Gendry winced at that. He was fifteen yet, soon to be sixteen. There were too many years between them for him to be looking at her the way he wanted. Ignoring the thought, he tugger her hand up and put it over the shallower of the two, letting her feel that it did not hurt him. He sighed when her finger traced it, eyes locked there, making sure that it was as fine as he claimed. "See?" He asked when she pulled her hand away, convinced that he had proven his point. The word froze in his throat as her fingers dropped to the second one, he hissed out his pain as her finger traced it to the edge of his pants.

"No. I don't." She replied, and her other hand came out to tug down the side, letting her finger run the rest of the wound. "The maester kept thread in his tower. I've watched him take care of things like this, I can fix it." She was determined, so he followed her without comment. If asked, he would never admit that her skin on his skin had froze his tongue. He would say it was the pain before he admitted that while she had hurt him, she'd helped him far more.

In the tower-which had been spared most of the fire damage-Arya made him lay back on the floor as she rummaged through the maester's things. There was little he could do other than what she told him. In the light through the window, he watched her look, eyes sharp and voice scrunched in concentration. She would really become a beautiful young woman, he told himself as she tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear. Since Qarth, she'd stopped cutting off chucks and had tried to keep it more tame. He would thank the Targaryen princess for that if it ever came up. Without all of the dirt on her face, she was clearly a girl. Gendry wondered at how anyone thought her otherwise.

She turned back to him with a triumphant smile, clutching a needle and thread as well as a jar of something that Gendry as convinced was poison. He tried not to flinch when the needle passed through his skin and tugged the wound closed, and when she'd finished he could do nothing but laugh. "Shut up." Arya chuckled, eyeing the way her stitches looked uneven and were less neat than the maesters had been at his worst.

"Never." Gendry replied with a chuckle, and she smacked him lightly on the shoulder, laughing herself. "Thank you." He said as she smeared on some of the green mush and marveled at the way it numbed his skin.

"Don't thank me." Arya replied, face serious for a moment. "Sansa was always better with a needle. She'd have been better at this." She wished in that moment that she'd spent more time with Septa Mordaine and her sewing needles.

"I wouldn't want your sister here." He replied before he could think, and Arya glanced at him wide eyed. He nearly swore when she pulled her hands away from where they were rubbing the wonderful green mess into his hip. "Arya..." He sighed and watched her put the pot of medicine away on a shelf. He was older than she was, he told himself. She was still more interested in kissing a kitten than she would be kissing him. He tipped his head back, letting it hang in the air as he sat propped up on his elbows.

"I would." She picked up the empty space. "I would want her here, even though she's annoying and hates me." She bowed her head and rubbed her hands across her face. "She would be perfect, you know. Perfect all the time with her curly hair and her dresses and her perfect stitches." Arya pulled her head from her hands and looked over at him. "She'd probably know exactly how to take care of a boy." Gendry nearly chuckled at that.

"Silly girl." He murmured and sat up the rest of the way, pleasantly surprised when the wound at his hip no longer ached. "I'm a blacksmith's apprentice, and a bastard at that. What makes you think your sister would waste her time on me?" Arya looked at his owl eyed and angrier as his words sank in.

"My brother Jon is a bastard, and he says things like that all the time." Arya groused. "Its so stupid." She spit out the last word and crossed her arms across her small chest.

"It's our lives, Arya." Gendry reasoned, pulling his shirt over his head. "Think about it, does your high borne sister spend as much time as you thinking about your bastard brother?" He asked, leveling Arya with a stare that demanded the truth.

"Sansa loves Jon." Arya defended, but she knew it was otherwise. "She does, really." Gendry laughed at the look on her face. "Alright, she hates Jon, but that's just because she's never given him a chance."

"Exactly." Gendry explained, standing up and pulling her to her feet with him. "I'd rather you here, Arya Stark, who sits in the mud and can't stitch a straight line. Because your high borne sister would do little more than glance my way and move on if I were dying in the cobblestones roads of King's Landing." Arya was standing closer to him than she had before, and he was vaguely aware of it, but the call of her had lessened since they'd started talking again. It felt like they were on the road again, walking together and joking.

"No, she wouldn't." Arya chided, but giggled through the lie.

"Oh, really then?" He laughed back, a smile on his face and a lightness to his heart that he hadn't felt in weeks. "Then let me find this sister of yours, to fix your sloppy stitches." Arya faked shock and hit him lightly on the stomach with the back of her hand. They wrestled back and forth a few moments, and Gendry finally pulled her into a hug, which she fought for a moment. "Never think you are less than your sister." He murmured into the short hair on her head. "Because you are not." And with that he let her go and they awkwardly made their way back down the stone steps, both happier than they'd been.

The scene that met them at the bottom of the stair was something neither had suspected. Shouts and the sound of metal on metal spurred them forward, panic in Arya's veins and confusion in Gendry's. Outside of the keep, men from the Iron Islands stood, swords draw, meeting the Dothraki. Arya didn't have to count to see that they were outnumbered. A woman's voice rose above the fighting, and Arya found Daenerys, a wickedly curved blade in her hand, backing away from a woman with a broadsword. Arya watched quietly a moment, fear tickling the back of her mind.

She darted through the men, her smaller form slipping between Dothraki and Iron borne alike. She drew the twisted blade from her hip and ran up on the woman, slashing it quickly at the back of her leg as she darted past, putting herself next to the Kahleesi. "Arya!" Daenerys cried when she saw her draw the blade through the woman's leg. "Get back in the keep." She demanded, but it was half hearted. Daenerys Targaryen was not made for war, and she knew it. In that moment, Arya felt as though she was borne for battle.

"Right." Arya quipped, watching as the woman clutched at the back of her thigh, a grimace on her face. Through the crowd, Arya could hear Theon's voice, crying out about blood and battle. Rage colored her eyes and she longed to disappear into the masses and quick like the cats Syrio had her chasing, burry the dagger into his chest and arms, legs and belly. Jorah passed a blade clean through one of the men from the Iron Islands, and appeared at their side, pulling Daenerys behind him as another two men joined the woman, who was grinning through her pain, looking straight at Arya.

Fear bubbled up in her chest, but the anger she felt toward their family's ward kept her head level. A Dothraki man cleaved one of the iron borne nearly in half from head to cock, but there were too many mice with swords for the cat to catch them all. Arya gripped the blade harder and slipped from behind Jorah into the madness. There would be blood, and the girl would be bloody. This was her work.

***Scene Change***

Ygritte was worried, she would never admit it, but she'd seen the soot covered snow that came when things were burned to the ground. When her family's home had been burned, she had seen the dark snow miles and miles away, where the soot had been carried by the wind. The dark specks had gotten more and more common as they rode on, and in the distance smoke peaked out from behind the tree line. Her horse was jumpy, but that was something she felt was inherent to the animal. The wildlings never road horses, and she was uncomfortable in the saddle, even after the weeks ride south.

"You want to talk about the smoke, Snow, or are we gonna ignore that as well?" She asked, forcing the Stark bastard to eye the blackness in the clouds.

"Yes." He admitted, adjusting himself in the saddle and trying not to think about how close they were to Winterfell. "I know its childish." He said harshly, "but I don't want to see my home burning." He glanced to her, but she was quiet in the saddle.

"You know, Snow, its best to just find out." She sighed and looked over at him. "We're going to find out sooner or later, no matter how fast or slow we ride. No matter if you ignore it or if you worry over it." A shout came across the wind, and Ygritte straightened in the saddle. "You hear that, Snow?" She asked, hand reaching for the blade at her hip. Jon had also straightened up, head turned to catch another shout. He recognized that voice, and it confused him. It was a voice he'd heard mocking him every day since he'd come to know Theon Greyjoy.

"Yes." He replied, burying his heels into the large brown courser he road. "Come on." He shouted over his shoulder. If Theon Greyjoy was at Wintefell, Robb might be beside him, and that was the war-cry he'd heard time and time again in the practice arena. The closer he came to Winterfell, the clearer it became that the Keep had been burned. Panic gripped him and he drew Longclaw as he rode. He leapt the horse through the gate, drawing up short when he saw what was happening. There were men in cloaks and armor, with Pike's sigil upon it, fighting against men and women, bare chested or barely clothed. At first, he'd thought to start burying his sword in the exotics, but just as he dismounted, her heard his name called.

"Jon!" It was Arya's voice, but it took him a moment to find her in the melee. Alone, with a wickedly twisted blade in her hand, she was backed up against the well, one of the armored men menacing her with a long sword. "Jon, help!" She cried, and in that moment, he hated Theon Greyjoy and his men. He knew even before he took the first steps toward the man that he wasn't going to get there quickly enough. He knew that the bastard from the Iron Islands was going to put his blade clean through his sister. The Arya he remembered would have died that day, a blade buried between her ribs, but she was no longer the Arya he remembered.

As his legs ate up ground quicker than they ever had and he passed Longclaw as quickly as possible through the men that stepped between him and his goal. He could hear Ghost snarling and ripping at metal armor as if it were leather. Almost as if his nightmares had come to life, the man drew his arm back and paused, point heading at his sister, and plunged the edge forward. "Arya!" He cried, bringing Longclaw up so it would be ready when he got there, but as the blade came down, Arya did something that he didn't think she could do. As quick as she'd run from her Septa in the past, she darted sideways, took the wicked blade in her hand, and plunged it forward between the planes of the man's armor. He doubled over and fell to the ground as Arya pulled the blade back. The man's blood coated the dagger and her hand was stained in the red.

"Jon!" She cried, shaking herself from her study of the blade as he pulled her to his chest, dropping to his knees in relief and hugging her tighter than he thought healthy. "Jon you're back. You're alive." He heard her murmur over and over again, but a cry from behind him startled him back to the fight around him. The wild looking men were winning. Behind him, Ygritte's red hair was swaying. She'd come to stand behind him, with her back to him, and her dagger plunged into another iron borne's chest. Ghost's head came up nearly to her shoulders, and he was closer to the Wildling than Jon had ever seen the direwolf.

"Come on, Snow. Get yer head out of your arse!" She cried, moving on when he stood with Longclaw at the ready. Across the melee, Theon Greyjoy was backed into a corner, the last of his men falling. One of the large men drew their hand back, a curved blade in his hand.

"Wait!" He jumped when Arya cried out, running past him and toward where Theon was standing, hands out in front of him in defense. "Wait!" She called again, and the big man stopped, mid swing. He turned to her and nodded, backing away from the Greyjoy heir.

"Theon?" Jon asked as he followed Arya across the sea of bodies and the large, muscled men and thin wiry women.

"Fuck you, Snow!" Theon barked, eyeing the men around him. "Fuck all you Starks!" He cried, nursing his hand, where two of his fingers had been cleaved by a blow. Blood was pooling in his good hand and falling to the ground. "My father will-"

"Oh, do you ever shut up?" His sister's voice was clipped with anger and pain as she was shoved bodily down on the ground in front of him by a well muscled Dothraki warrior. She glared up at the man with the kohl lined eyes and brought herself to her knees. "That which is dead may never die." She hissed and only smiled when her head was jerked around by a harsh slap. She spat out a mouthful of blood and smiled up at Jon, teeth stained red. "And who are you?" She asked, pivoting on one knee to leverage herself to her feet despite the blood draining from the wound Arya had dealt to her thigh.

"Bind them." A voice came from behind Jon, who turned and stared at a woman with the whitest blonde hair he'd ever seen. He knew her though, nearly immediately. The Targaryens were the only family that was known for hair as pale as moonlight, and the woman in front of him was clearly just that: a Targaryen. She spoke with an authority that he'd never heard, and the men around him moved to tie their hands behind them quickly. He almost felt sorry for Theon Greyjoy as his arms were wrenched painfully behind him, the bleeding stumps of his finger ignored. "Who are you?" The blonde woman turned away from her hostages, eyes slipping by Arya as if in question before focusing on the sword still clutched in Jon's hand.

"Jon Snow." He breathed, and drew Arya a bit closer to him, trying to reduce the threats that seemingly surrounded them.

"He's my brother." Arya explained, and Jon felt something warm in his chest at being called brother again. As he pulled her closer, the slip of a girl stepped in front of him instead of behind, and Jon felt as though he were the girl being defended. The Targaryen girl relaxed visibly at the statement, and she smiled at him, nodding to one of the large men that had come up behind him. "Jon, this is Daenerys." Arya said, eyes bright and excited, a sharp contrast to the blood on her hands. A dark haired boy had appeared as well, and was watching the blood on her hands as though he wanted nothing more than to wash it off.

"A Targaryen." He nodded his head, and looked down at Arya. "What is going on here?" He took in the burned mess of what used to be strong wood, the bodies, and finally, the short crop of his sister's hair. "What happened to you?" He asked, turning to her and sheathing Longclaw. The girl considered him a moment, and with exaggerated slowness, set the spiraling blade on the blood soaked snow. She turned, and with a little noise in the back of her throat, lunged at Jon, jumping up and wrapping her arms and legs around his torso. A few of the larger men chuckled at her behavior, but neither Jon or Arya seemed to care.

"I missed you." She said against the skin of his neck, and he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and holding her in place. For a moment, he was just a boy who had missed his sister for far too long, but as all things since he'd left Winterfell, it was torn apart. "Everything's gone so wrong." And that much was clear, from the death of their father to the way that she was standing amongst men that looked as though they'd kill her before they saw her, there was something earth shatteringly wrong.

"What happened?" He asked again, but this time she just shook her head against his shoulder and mumbled something into the fur there. "I can't hear you." He laughed and looked around, expecting to see Caitlyn, Robb, Sansa, Bran or Rickon appear from the keep at any moment, looking for Arya-or maybe her Septa. "Where is everyone?" He asked, but as the girl buried her head further into his shoulder, his heart fell.

"Blood of my blood, you should wash your hands." Daenerys spoke, clearly addressing Arya, whose bloodied hands had caused dark sworls against his neck where they'd gripped. "And take your brother out to the tree that cries." Jon was confused for only a moment, but an image of the God's wood flashed across his memory as Arya clung all the tighter. The way the pale girl looked at his sister was startling, eyes soft and tone worried.

"Arya..." The dark haired boy spoke, and Arya turned her head to look at him under Jon's chin. As Gendry watched her clinging there, to her brother, he could see her youth, the way she really wasn't ready for the world she'd been forced into. "Do you want me to take him over?" The way the boy spoke to Arya made Jon smile. He'd seen that type of look before, and he was sure he'd worn it himself. It was a quiet thing, insecurity and the want to help.

"No." Arya mumbled, finally unwinding her legs from around Jon's waist and falling to the ground. She scrubbed at her eyes, shame at being caught with tears there coloring her cheeks. This was his sister, sure enough, but she had also been his sister when she'd plunged the curved blade into the Iron Islands man. "No, I'll take him." One of the Dothraki mumbled something and another laughed. Daenerys tried to glare at them, but a smile broke out on her face as well.

"And explain all of this?" Jon asked, unease still curling in his stomach. Someone else should have been here. Bran and Rickon had been left at the castle even when Eddard, Sansa, and Arya had gone to King's Landing. Robb had gone south, but Jon knew that he wouldn't take all the Starks from Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Jon could almost hear his father's voice. Arya tugged on his hand and he followed her off into the God's Wood, behind him he knew Ygritte was following, but he didn't care. The woman would do as she please whether he told her to or not.

It did not take Jon Snow long to discover where Bran and Rickon had gone. The two large mounds of dirt and rock told him without Arya having to. Sorrow swelled in his heart and he collapsed to his knees in front of the twin heaps. He hung his head and images swam behind his closed eyes with tears. A Stark did not cry. A Brother of the Watch did not cry. Quietly and gently, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned, dark eyes blurring the red head's figure. She knelt down beside him and gripped a handful of dirt from each grave and putting it in his hand. He did not question it, and he clutched the hand to his chest. Arya was crying next to him, leaning into his side, shoulder shaking from the tears.

Jon wasn't sure when Ygritte left, but the next time he looked for her, she was gone and Arya was asleep against his side. With a sigh, he dropped the handful of grave dirt back atop Rickon's grave and stood, cradling Arya in his arms. The girl slept through the walk back to the keep. Jon thought on the changes in his sister. Despite the physical growth and the hack job that had been done to her hair, she was stronger, quicker, and harder. He'd seen it nearly at first, in the way she slid sideways and drove the twisted dagger home in the Iron Islander's flesh. Jon thought on it so long that he found himself standing inside the yard, unsure of where to take the girl in his arms. Surely everything in the castle had burned, and the tents that were set up were unmarked.

"She'll sleep in Daenerys's tent." The dark haired boy was sitting on the stone rim of the well, staring at the frozen blood in the snow. "I'll show you." He stood up and turned, walking toward the largest of the tents. Jon followed quietly, entering the poorly lit tent that the dark haired boy held open. Daenerys was inside, seated in front of a small fire. She smiled at Jon when he entered and gestured toward a fur on the ground beside her. He set her down and pulled it up over her body. Daenerys pointed toward the flap of the tent and followed him out.

"She showed you the graves?" Daenerys asked first, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to chase away the cold that seemed to be everywhere in the North. Jon only nodded, eyes watching the way the moonlight made Winterfell seem far beyond mortal reach, dead and haunted. "They were dead when we arrived." Daenerys cleared her throat and considered the back of his head, annoyance at the fact that he wouldn't turn around. "I would not have let it happen. The Dothraki don't kill children." Jon did turn around to that.

"Dothraki?" He asked, trying to pull the memory of that name from the lessons that he'd over heard one of the heraldry teachers telling Robb or Bran about. Not for the first time Jon realized exactly how disadvantaged he was to have been born a bastard.

"The horse people from across the sea." Daenerys informed, gesturing about them to the tents and the spare few men that were passed out in the snow. "My people." And for the first time, Daenerys Stormborne truly believed that. One of the Dothraki that had passed out in the snow snorted and rolled over, murmuring something in his sleep, and all Daenerys could catch was the word 'horse'. She'd taken these people so far from home, and now they were her responsibility.

"Whoever you are, and whatever you want, Arya likes you." Jon said it as though the simply fact was a complete judgement of her character. "And she's carrying a blade I've never seen before, which means it's probably one of your men's dagger. I'm assuming you've kept her safe, and she didn't show up with Theon, steal a dagger, and turn on the Stark ward." Daenerys tried to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up at the mention of the dagger, which she'd picked up from the snow and cleaned. It was currently settled against her hip, but felt too heavy there. The blade was given to Arya by her lord husband, and while Daenerys knew he was watching her, she also knew that it was not meant to sit there.

"It was my husbands." Daenerys murmured, turning her head upward to stare into the sky at the stars. "He gave it to her so she could protect me when he could not." Daenerys turned back to Jon and her face hardened. "Are we on different sides of a war, Jon Snow?" She asked, but she already knew the answer. If Arya asked her, she would let the Iron Throne go.

"No." He murmured, eyes dropping to the snow. "You're here for the Iron Throne?" He asked, tightening his jaw at the thought of the boy who sat upon it. "If you take it from the boy-king, you can have it, but I want his head." Daenerys smiled and nodded.

"Arya said something similar once, when we were talking about what would happen when we marched on King's Landing." Jon laughed at the thought of his sister asking for Joffry's head. The girl was a Stark through and through. "Your brother wants it." Daenerys broke through his thoughts. "Will Robb Stark be as willing to lay down his claim as you are to lay it down for him?" Jon thought on that. The blue eyed companion from his youth had never wanted a throne. Robb had never wanted more than Winterfell and a family. The Stark bastard stiffened at the last thought. Theon Greyjoy and Joffry Lannister had taken away parts of that family. Robb would not stop until all of the incestual family was dead: Jamie, Cersei, and the boy-king.

"My half-brother wants Winterfell and revenge. Give him both, and he might." Jon cleared his throat and looked upon the seemingly ghost keep again. "I'm taking Arya and going South." Jon announced, and Daenerys simply nodded in agreement. "He might be more willing to speak with you if you come with his sister." The pale skinned woman nodded again and looked around her, eyeing what was left of her khaleesar. "And you're not going to take King's Landing with what you have here." Jon said simply, reading the thoughts behind her glances.

"The Dothraki live for war." Daenerys countered, but even as she said it she knew that it was wrong. The city was meant to withstand siege from siege weaponry, not Dothraki blades and arrows. They would be picked off before they even got close enough to try and scale the walls.

"Not this war." Jon countered, jaw hardening. "If Robb or Stannis or you take King's Landing, Mance Rayder will come from the North and take it back if the White Walkers don't take it all first." Jon had been trying to avoid the Others, but it was impossible when discussing the future. "The Wall is destroyed. Soon the wildlings will pour through the gates and we'll have a war on our hands more suited to your men."

"Mance Rayder will not ride against you until the White Walkers have killed you all." Jon nearly drew Longclaw as Ygritte stepped from the shadow of the keep. Jon had thought she'd left, gone riding back north when she'd left the God's Wood. The fire in her eyes proved otherwise. "You've got a lot to learn about tactics, Jon Snow, if you think the King Beyond the Wall won't wait for the Others to sleep again."

"What are these Others?" Daenerys asked, uncomfortable with the way the girl just appeared from the shadows. "The Dothraki don't fear anything, and the Mother of Dragons fears least of all." Jon nearly questioned her, but the long memory of the Targaryens must have been at play. They had always claimed that they were dragon borne. With a sigh he considered the fact that the woman might have been insane.

"Oh, the Others will like your Dothraki well enough, princess." Ygritte egged, a smirk on her face that Jon had come to know as mischief. "When they're nice and dead we'll see how well you command your horse lords."

"We will not be-" Daenerys had raised her voice, stepping forward as if she were going to strike the Wildling, but a soft hiss and pop from behind her stopped them all. Arya was standing there, a small cream and bronze animal in her arms, and if Jon had not heard the stories, he would not have been able to call it what it was.

"She keeps crying." Arya explained, rubbing the last of the sleep from her eye as the dragon climbed to her shoulder and finally up onto her head. The youngest Stark girl giggled and tried to catch it, but it slipped just as quickly to the other shoulder and down into her arms again.

"They're hungry." Daenerys murmured, the cries of the other two now clear in her ears. She crossed the snow and held out her arms for the smallest of the three dragons, but it stayed happily in Arya's arms and stretched its wings.

"That's a dragon." Jon mumbled out, and Ygritte was too distracted by the appearance of the winged creature to tease him for stating the obvious. "Arya, you're holding a dragon." He repeated himself, shocked at the ease with which his younger sister was accepting the appearance of something that was supposedly long dead.

"It's Viserion." Arya corrected, and handed the growing dragon to its mother. The animal went after a few protests of nipping at Arya's fingers.

"I'll feed them." Daenerys muttered, wanting to flee the shocked glances and the look that Arya was giving her brother.

"Jon, what are we going to do?" Arya asked, and for the first time, Jon Snow had no bravado to give. He simply held out his arms and let the girl wrap herself about his waist. He'd been asking himself the same question since before he'd carried the girl back to the Dothraki tents. What was he going to do? He had his sister back, but the girl had already killed a man in their short time together. Surely Caitlyn Stark would find some way that the changes in her daughter would be his fault. Could he let her go south, to Robb and the war that was blooming? Could he keep her at Winterfell, restoring the castle beam by beam with only the two of them? No. That left even him with a feeling of wrongness. There was no real question about what they would do next. That day on the ride back from the execution, there had been six wolf pups, not five as he'd first thought, and those five siblings had been separated long enough.

"We go find Robb." Jon said as though it were the simplest question he'd ever heard. "We find Sansa and Robb. We get you back where you belong and make sure that your mother knows your still alive." He ruffled her short hair. "Though she'll probably blame this on me." He fingered the ends of her cropped hair with disdain.

"I had to, Jon." Arya explained, looking up with that hopeful glance that begged he of all people accepted what she'd done. "It was safer as a boy-"

"I like it." Jon interrupted, ruffling the ends again. "But your mother won't. For now, just let it grow out, yeah?" He asked, squatting down in front of her, shocked to find that she'd seemed to stretch out since the last time he'd seen her. "Gods, you've grown." He muttered and Arya smiled.

"I've changed." She agreed, and as if in that moment something awful had happened, her face darkened. "I'm sorry, you told me to keep it safe, and I lost it." Jon felt his head fall to the side in question, but Arya wasn't giving him a chance to ask what she meant. "You said it wasn't a toy. You got it for me special, and he took it, Jon." Needle. The Stark bastard remembered the day he'd given the sword to her, remembered the joy and excitement on her face.

"It's alright." He said easily enough, and while he was disappointed that she'd lost his gift, there was no real way to be angry. Things had changed, and he was sure that the Iron Borne man wasn't the first person she'd held a sword against. There would be other blades, other days, in other battles, that much he was sure about. The spark in her had grown wild since the last he'd seen her, and it made her all the more beautiful. "I'm just happy you're safe. Do you know where the others are?" He asked, trying to distract her from such a little thing that seemed to cause her more stress than the other, larger things she had to worry over.

"Fathers dead, Jon." Arya answered, eyes dropping down to the space between them. "I was there, and I couldn't do anything." Jon tucked a finger below her chin and made her look up at him where he crouching in front of her despite the ache in his legs.

"I know." He answered simply. "There was a raven. The others?" And god help him if she told him any more of his family was dead. He wasn't sure he could survive it.

"Sansa is in King's Landing with Joffry. She just watched it, Jon. She was standing right there, and she just watched." He would have drawn her in again, but she was on to other things, as if thinking about her sister was too difficult or too disgusting. "Robb will be at River Run, or close. When I was a cup bearer for Tywin Lannister, I heard him say that the little wolf had taken River Run." She smiled at the memories of her days in the Red Keep.

"Tywin Lannister?" Jon asked, shock on his face.

"I wasn't a very good cup bearer, but he liked to talk to me." Arya went on, seemingly unaffected by Jon's confusion. "He asked me if I thought that Robb would die, and I told him that anyone can die. I was right, wasn't I?" She asked, face darkening. "Even Joffry."

"Yes, even Joffry." And this was the girl that asked for a horse and a blade while scorning dolls and stitches. This was his sister that had begged him in secret to teach her the bow and how to toss an opponent to the ground. This was the girl that Septa Mordaine chased from morning until dusk with wet clothes and sewing. He smiled. There would be no other Arya Stark to ever walk the earth. Ygritte might boast her Wildling ways, but this girl was something completely different. She was a wolf.

As if the thought had summoned him, Ghost bumped his wide forehead against Arya's backside, making the girl stumble into Jon, sending them both sprawling. "Ghost!" Arya shouted, turning and tucking herself under the direwolf's head and hugging his chest. "You've gotten so big!" She exclaimed, standing back to look up at his face. "Nymeria must be as big as you now." And Jon had wondered where her direwolf had gone, but the way she said her name made him hold his tongue. His sister had lost quite a lot since he'd last seen her.

"Come on." Jon interrupted her appraisal of the direwolf to pull her back to his side. "We've got a long day tomorrow and the next. It'll take at least three or four days to get to River Run." Arya's face lit up at the thought.

"Four days and I'll see Robb again." Jon nodded, but couldn't deny the pain in his chest at her excitement. The Starks were Starks, and he was a Snow. That would always be true. No war or wolf or wandering could change that. He vaguely heard Theon Greyjoy swear in the distance where one of the Dothraki was prodding him with the dull end of a spear. Arya would sleep, and Jon-he gathered the girl to his side and lead her back to Daenerys's tent-Jon would spend the night exacting as much revenge from the Iron Borne traitor as he could.


	6. The Red God and His Children

Chapter Six: The Red God and His Children

Jon had been standing just outside of the ring of firelight for the past hour or so. He wasn't really sure how long he'd watched Theon sit in the dirt, arms and legs bound. The girl was there, of course, with her leg creating a slow puddle of blood beneath her, but she was not his concern. Theon did like his whores, afterall. The Dothraki guard had leveled him with a serious stare and stopped jabbing their hostages. Theon's breathing had evened out, and Jon assumed that he was sleeping beneath the blindfold. Jon slipped soundlessly into the firelight and stood in front of Theon's sleeping form, snickering as Ghost followed him, sensing the betrayal as easily as the direwolf sensed prey or the smell of blood.

"Wake up, Greyjoy." Jon barked, and kicked the Irone borne in the side, elliciting a dull groan and a series of obscenities that Jon was sure was meant to hurt his feelings. "So, Robb leaves and you think you'll take Winterfell." Jon kept speaking through Theon's groaning and swearing. "Thought you'd kill Bran and Rickon. Thought you'd have your men kill Arya." Jon kept his voice level, and was almost afraid how easily he could simply make the statements. Ghost growled low and deadly, and Theon stopped making any noises.

"Jon, Jon I wouldn't have-" Ghost leapt forward and pinned the boy in place, snarling and dripping saliva down onto his face. It was almost too easy to scare the boy, Jon decided. Tears soaked into the blindfold, and the snow beneath the boy melted as he pissed himself. The Dothraki guard mumbled something under his breath, and Jon could only make out the disdain of the tone.

"You wouldn't have killed her?" Jon asked, ignoring the pathetic picture that the youth made. "Just as you didn't kill Bran or Rickon?" Theon was mumbling, some combination of a prayer and begging punctuated with sobs and moans.

"Gods, Theon." The girl spoke for the first time. "Your time with the Starks really made you into a babe." She hissed as the Dothraki man put the blunt end of the spear into her stomach. "Come on, one more for the road!" She shouted at where she thought the man was standing, and in response, he jabbed at her again. Jon held his hand up and circled around, staring down at her where she sat in the snow.

"Who are you?" He asked, watching the way she smirked and sucked in air from the blows.

"I am Iron Borne." She replied. "I am Asha Greyjoy. I am the heir to the Iron Islands, and I am who is going to kill you." The Dothraki made to flip the spear around at the mention of killing, but Jon held his hand out to stop him. The Dothraki grunted something under his breath, but the spear did not come down on the girl.

"And how are you going to kill me, when you're tied up like a pig for table, Asha Greyjoy?" He asked, crouching in front of her and pulling the blindfold off her face. The girl smirked a bloody flash of teeth.

"I'm of the Drowned God." She said simply. "I am stone and salt and steel. What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never-" Theon was cut off by a sharp blow to his stomach from the Dothraki guard. The man chuckled at the wimper and went back to staring into the darkness.

"What is dead is dead." Jon muttered. "Have you seen a dead man that it is not dead?" Jon asked. Asha did not respond, jaw set defiantly in a grimace. "I have. Their eyes are pale. They see you, but they don't see you. You can kill them, but they will not die. Do you know what you have to do?" Jon paused, but was not expecting a response. "You have to burn them. It's not water, little girl. It's fire. You burn them. So tell me, how does your drowned god make dead men live? Have you seen any men rise from the tides? Have you crossed blades with any man or woman that you could put your steel through while it keeps on walking?" Jon stared her hard in the eyes, but Asha Greyjoy only shrugged a shoulder and stared right back at him.

"Doesn't change that your brothers are dead, and it doesn't change that I'm going to kill you and that little bitch." Jon knew who she was talking about, and he let the Dothraki slam the blunt end of the spear down on the back of her head. Jon felt an odd sense of satisfaction as the girl crumped in a heap at his feet. There was something about the Greyjoy girl that bothered him far more than Theon ever had.

"Asha?" Theon cried when the girl collapsed to the dirt. "Asha!" He called again, and Jon let him suffer for a moment longer. "I swear if you-"

"Easy, Greyjoy." Jon bit out. It almost pained him to tell the boy that his sibling was still alive when he'd taken two from the Stark family. "What is dead may never die, right?" Jon asked walking around and wrenching the blindfold off of his face. "I should kill her. Let you iron bornes see how final death can be."

"I swear, Snow, if you kill her I'll-"

"You'll nothing, Theon." Jon interrupted him. "What you're going to do is lay there silently." Jon crouched down in front of him and Ghost came to lean his big head over his shoulder, jowls dripping as he snarled at the boy. "I'm going to kill you." Jon made the statement a simple fact. It wasn't a threat by any means, but the low growling from Ghost was. "I a going to take Longclaw, and I'm going to push it through your chest, slow and gentle. Do you know how painful it would be to feel every bit of flesh as it's torn apart?" Theon made a high pitched voice in from his nose. "Or maybe Robb will do it. You remember Robb?" Jon asked, and didn't continue until Theon suttered out an answer.

"Ye-yes." His answer was broken by the sharp intake of breath. "I was-was going to war-n him, Snow. I swe-swear I was going to warn him!"

"Warn him that you were going to kill his brothers?" Jon asked, a mix of digust and hilarity sparking through his chest. "What? Tell him that his father should have slit your throat instead of giving you a home?" Jon stood up and turned away before he did take Longclaw from its sheath and drive it throught his chest. The Dothraki reached down and pulled the blindfold back up over Theon's eyes.

"He won't sleep." The Dothraki muttered in the common tongue. Jon nodded and turned to Ghost.

"Stay boy." He instructed and the wolf turned back to Theon whose head was swiveling back and forth as the direwolf prowled in circles around him. Jon walked into the darkness. The Greyjoys would not know peace or comfort until their death, on that he was certain. Something in Arya had earned the men's respect, and whether it was for her or Daenerys that they tortued Theon, Jon didn't care.

He laid down beneath the moon that night, pleasantly suprised that he felt warm. He hadn't remembered a night when snow had coated the ground in Winterfell that he could sleep under the stars. The Wall had done that for him, if nothing else. A pain was in his heart at that. Samwell. Pypar. They would all be dead but walking. Could their lives be so forfeit? "And now their watch has ended." He murmured into the night before sleep claimed him. He only had to wonder if his own watch was as over as their own.

***Scene Change***

Arya Stark woke with a fire in her belly. There were few things that could be done to stop the pain of loosing her brothers, but getting one brother back at her side did much to start dull the ache. The rest of the pain she'd have to take out on the Greyjoy siblings, which she did with pleasure. For the better part of the last hour, she'd periodically jabbed the more masculine of the two with the blunted end of a Dothraki spear. The guard-Draegon-had given it to her and chuckled every time she poked the blunted end into flesh.

"Stop, damn you!" Asha Greyjoy roared and lashed out with a closed fist. Arya chuckled as she jabbed the end in again. Asha was so much more fun to torment than Theon, who simply laid there whimpering. "I will rip your eyes from your head, you cunt!" She cried and spun in a circle on her good leg, trying to find where Arya was standing. Draegon chuckled and elbowed Arya, who sat beside him on the back of a wagon.

"Aresak jano." The Draegon muttered and looked to Arya, who repeated the word as if she were tasting a wine. "Jano, not janu." Arya repeated it again and he smiled.

"What's is mean?" She asked the big man, who gestured toward Theon. "Cowardly dog." He replied, chuckling when Theon raged over the insult.

"Is that right, Theon?" Arya asked, standing up and jabbing him with the spear instead of his sister. "Are you a coward?" She didn't give him time to respond. "Because I think you are, but you're not good enough to be a dog." She smiled back at Draegon, who she had become comfortable with over the course of the morning, and put the blunted end of the spear into his side again. In a quick twist, Theon caught the end between his side and his arm and pulled it away form Arya's hands, using it wildly in front of him. The youngest surviving Stark jumped backward and under a wild swing of the spear.

"Come on!" Theon shouted, the binding of his hands making it impossible for him to wield it with any success. He wiped about again and by that time Arya was well out of the way. Draegon had stiffened on the wagon, but did not get up. Dark eyes watched her as she danced around the boy's wild thrusts and pulled the dagger from her hip. She slipped behind him and cut his hands free before jumping back again.

"You want your life, Theon?" She asked, something dark bubbling in her throat. The Red God wanted one last name, but that didn't mean that she had to give it to Jaqen H'ghar. Greyjoy threw his blind fold off and blinked into the sunlight. The spear fell into his hands more securely, and he pointed it at her once his eyes adjusted to the light. "Take it." She muttered, body sliding to the side and coming to a standstill. Draegon stood up and stepped to the side, creating a straight pathway should he need to get to Theon quickly.

"Do you have a death wish?" He asked, eyes searching around him wide and confused. Jon was no where to be found, and his direwolf was just as missing. No one was watching except for the Dothraki and the youngest Stark.

"Yes." Arya whispered and waiting, the dagger clutched delicately in the hand closest to him. Theon watched its wicked curve for a moment and then glanced back up at the girl that held it. In her hand it looked like a sword, but he knew in a Dothraki hand it would be just a dagger, a weapon that required close quarters. The spear in his hand guaranteed that close quarters would not happen. He vaguely heard his sister tell him something, but the words weren't clear, and all sound escaped him as he thrust the spear forward, to where Arya's middle had been. Like a shadow, she slipped sideways and forward, along the shaft of the spear until she was just there, beneath his outstretched arms. The next thing he felt was the cool of the blade against his belly, sharp and insistent, but not yet drawing blood.

"Do you want to die, Theon?" She asked, pressing harder, the dagger cutting through just the top layer of skin. Draegon muttered something behind her, but she couldn't make out the words. She pressed a bit harder and the Iron Borne whimpered. "Put it down, and sit down." Arya commanded, and Theon did as he was told quickly, scrabbling backward on his hands and buttocks.

She took a step back, eyeing the blood on the dagger for a moment before wiping it on her pant leg. If her mother had been there, Lady Catelyn would have thrown a fit to see the dagger in her hand and an even larger one to see the blood against the linen. Lady Catelyn was not there, however, and all Arya had to go on was the smile on Draegon's face and the way that he chuckled at her antics. For such a war like race, the Blood Riders had taken her under their wings. She didn't know if that spoke to her character or to theirs.

Whatever it was, she was riding on a Dothraki horse an hour later as one of the men-Rhaegan she thought was his name-hooted and hollered for her to ride harder, faster, further as she moved in circles around him. The animal was a dull grey, but she was young and headstrong, something Arya found to match her personality well. Daenerys had been uneasy when she'd climbed up onto the bare back of the animal and kicked her heels into her sides. The animal reared and bucked, but Arya was slim and could hold herself down, finger tight in its mane. It had taken her the better part of the hour to get it to calm down. Now she was riding with the animal between her legs as easily as if she was running in circles herself.

Rhaegan threw his head back and gave a whoop that she assumed was a cry of joy. Daenerys laughed as Arya lept from the animal's back and into Jon's arms, who had been watching her with a mixture of apprehension and pride. The Stark bastard spun her in a circle, trying to absorb the momentum of her jump. "What are you going to name her?" Jon asked, and Arya's world lit up for a moment. She'd not named anything since Nymeria, but as she thought of the direwolf, her heart dropped.

"The Dothraki do not name their horses." Daenerys cut in, a smile on her face as her own horse was brought to her, and she mounted up. "Draegon has something for you, so hurry and find him. We ride out as soon as everyone is ready." Arya nodded and disappeared amongst the growing Khaleesar. The Bloodriders that had rejoined Daenerys had taken on a whole new view of their Queen when they found her as the Mother of Dragons. While they were loyal to her husband, they would ride on her word until they had carried out his wishes. Then, when their Khal's wishes had been carried out and there were no more wars to fight, they would ride with their Khal with the Great Horse God. Daenerys had been distraught when one of them had explained their plans, but she was starting to understand their traditions more and more. While it was difficult for her to think that the strong Dothraki warriors would take each other's lives to ride with her husband, it made her feel blessed that he had such loyal brothers. Blood of my blood he had called them, and Daenerys thought on those that she would give that title to.

Before Qarth, there were more on her list, but anymore the people she truely felt that connected to were minimal. Arya had risked her life for her dragons, and for that she would always be in her debt. The little Stark girl was a warrior, and the Dorthaki had taken her into their protection, especially the blood rider Draegon, who had spent the better part of the last week working on the gift that he had waiting for her. At first, Daenerys hadn't understood his affinity for the girl, but when she asked Jorah about the man, it became more clear.

Draegon had become one of Drogo's Blood Riders after Drogo had been wounded helping Draegon to fight off a rival Khaleesar raiding party, who had found their camp in the middle fo the night. Draegon's wife and two children-a dark eyed boy named Draen and a beautiful baby girl roughly Arya's age-had been killed. Drogo had been wounded gravely, and it was thought that the young warrior would not last the night. Draegon swore his allegiance as a Blood Rider when the sun rose the next morning, claiming that Drogo was a God among the Khaleesar, and that he would ride with him and fight his battles, as Drogo had fought his own. That had been before Grogo was Khal, and through the years, his fierceness in battle, and hard and fast loyalty had won him seven Blood Riders, all of who would give their lives for his.

Daenerys would miss them when the time finally came and they walked each other into that other world, but she could understand their customs now. She just hoped that Arya wouldn't become too attacked to the men who rode to die. As it was, it was about thirty minutes later when Daenerys saw Arya again. The girl was running through the falling snow, a huge smile on her face and the twisted dagger at her hip, directly at her big grey horse. She lept up onto a wagon and launched herself onto the mare's back, settling there quickly before grabbing the reins and twisting the animal around to find the big dark horse that her brother rode upon. Daenerys watched as she met Jon halfway across the yard, shouting about her gift.

And a gift it was. The Dothraki believed in few things of honor: horses, weapons, grass and armor. She had been given a great grey mare to ride. Drogo's own dagger hung at her waste, and now she was wearing the hard leather armor of the Dothraki. It was small of course, slightly misshapen because it had been scaled down so small to fit her, but all the care had been taken to harden the leather while keeping it flexable. Jon considered it for a moment, tested the movement by having her bend and squat, and when she finally spun in a wide circle for him, he smiled and said something that make the girl's face light up.

The slip of a girl let Jon help her back onto her horse, and Daenerys nodded to Rhaegan, who started the Khaleesar moving through the large scorched stone of the Winterfell gate. Daenerys watched them go, one by one. The Blood Riders first, Jon Snow and the red haired woman that rode in with him. Arya followed her brother. Daenerys watched for a moment before realizing that no one else would go through the gate until she took her place at the front of the Khaleesar. She urged her silver forward, and took her place seemlessly in the group. Daenerys watched as Arya rode by her brother, and the stark contrast that Jon made to her normal companion Gendry was not lost upon her.

Jon was shorter than Gendry would be at his age, broader and paler. Gendry would no doubt be stronger, with his long hours in the forge, and Daenerys had seen that strength time and time again during their voyage across the Narrow Sea. There was something in Jon though, that wasn't in the younger boy, and Daenerys couldn't quiet figure out what it was as they rode. Gendry joined Arya an hour into the ride, teasing her about how a lady shouldn't wear armor. Jon had said something back which made Arya beam and Gendry laugh. Her silver lurched forward underneath her and she chuckled at the animal's will to run. Arya's own mare responded when the silver nudged at his quarters, and she slipped between the two Stark siblings and on through, the animal picking up into a canter. The blood riders gave a whoop as she urged the animal past and gave it its head. She didn't worry about the Khaleesar behind there. There were no walkers other than either prisoners, and the Dothraki had an interesting way to make them keep up.

It felt good to be out of the desert that was Qarth. There had been so many betrayals and pains in the harsh heat that the chill was comforting. She heard a hiss and a pop and rotated in the saddle, laughing at the red and black dragon that was soaring beside her. They'd grown quickly, her children, but it would be some time before they would be big enough to ride like the ancient Targaryens had. She watched as the winged animal the size of a large dog spat fire again into the air. She longed to fly at that moment, and without a second thought, she dropped the reins and let her arms float out to her sides.

The silver was like the wind across the Grass Sea. She floated, and as Daenerys let the animal find its own way over the snow patched ground, nothing could challenge her. The blood riders were behind her, of course, that much she knew. They wouldn't let their Khaleesi go far before following. They wouldn't challenge her run though. They would simply follow at a distance, which was why she was shocked when a large black beast sidled up beside her. The animal gave a great grunt and lunged forward, trying to keep pace with the silver. Daenerys felt the animal shy beneath her and put on a burst of speed. It was only a moment that they rode side by side, but in that moment, she gave Jon Snow a challenging smile. There would be no riding with the wind today. He shouted something after her, but in the next moments, he was gone, one of the Blood Riders keeping him back. She laughed and let the horse run herself out.

There were days when she thought that Vanerys taking her across the water to the sea of grass and the Dothraki people was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Today was one of those days. Her silver was perhaps the best thing she'd ever been given. Her eyes scanned the sky around her, but the red and black dragon was gone, returned to its siblings. By the time the mare ran herself out, Daenerys was alone on the path, evergreens growing up on either side, frozen with snow and ice.

Breath came in thick ropes of steam from her silver's nostrils, and she exhaled her own line of heat. The pounding behind her wasn't the Blood Riders. There was a heaviness to the hoof beats that the light animals fo the Dothraki lacked. It was a horse laden with rider and furs came to a thundering stop beside her, and she let her breathing even out as Jon Snow looked over at her with a cross between worry and constipation on his face. "You shouldn't ride ahead like that." His voice was cross, and something in her sparked in defense.

"I am Khaleesi; I'll do as I please." For the first time, she believed it. Something about the land and her Khaleesar at her back made her feel the part far more than she had since Drogo's death.

"Of course you will." Jon muttered, rubbing his corser's neck soothingly as it danced in place, coat shining with sweat despite the cold. "You could do what was intelligent though." Daenerys felt something bubble in her stomach, but she held her tongue, listening instead to the sounds of the wind through the trees and the soft padding noise that had been bothering her for the past several minutes. "Ghost." Jon called, and the animal appeared from her right, startling her with its silence.

"He's bigger up close." She mused, and wondered for a moment if the man of the Night's Watch could ride the damnable beast instead of his horse.

"He's growing." Jon smiled down at the wolf as it leaned against the horse's side. It had taken him days of travel to keep the horse from bolting every time the wolf brushed up against his master's legs. "Thank you for Arya." Jon finally said, turning in the saddle to look the Targaryen woman in the eye.

"Your sister found her way here on her own." Daenerys amended, mind wandering over the coarse land in front of her. There was an unevenness to the ground, a roughness to the land. It was little wonder how the Stark children were as they were. Jon nodded, eyes watching the Targaryen take in his homeland. There was a time when he thought he'd never see it again, and there had been a time before that when he was sure he wouldn't want to see it again.

There would be time for thoughts of home, and thoughts of the future later, when Theon Greyjoy was laying dead in the snow, and his last sibling was at his side. Daenerys watched as Jon spurred his horse forward, the animal starting into a slow canter.

Author's Note:

You guys are amazing. So many reviews! It warms my heart, and gets you a new chapter. I'm having a bit of a difficult time since one of my reviews made me reconsider the pairings. I'm honestly not sure if there will even BE a pairing at all. I'm a bit uncomfy making anything too serious with Arya, given her age. Anyway, thanks guys! You make me all squishy.


	7. Paths Converged in a Snow Covered Wood

Chapter Seven: Two Paths Converged in a Snow Covered Wood

Osha hadn't actually left the God's Wood with the intention of taking Bran and Rickon south. Maester Luwin had said to take the boys north to the wall, where their loving half brother would await them with open arms, in the safe, sanctity of the shadow of the monster of ice. Except Osha knew what was north. Mance Rayder was a shadow that the men of the wall feared, but even Rayder feared what happened in the white blindness of the snow. The wildling woman ducked her Hodor stretched his large frame, effectively hiding the two sleeping boys from the eyes of a pair of riders clad in the pale cream and brilliant hold inlay of the Gold Cloaks.

It wasn't as though she thought the boys were in any real danger should they be taken to King's Landing, but the Wildling woman had seen enough of war and thrones games in her life to know that children were often used as pawns. News had reached along the road that Tywin Lannister had ridden to the aid of his grandson. The Lion of Casterly Rock was now Hand of the King, and while Osha feared the paws and jaws of the Child King, she feared the light blue eyes and the clear crystalline weapons of the White Walkers far more.

The hooves of the horses made sharp noises against the frozen snow, disappearing down the trail. They barely spared a glance at the travelers, and Hodor straightened back up, took up the handles of the cart soundlessly, and continued his task. If the simple giant hadn't been with them, Osha doubted they'd have made it a league from Winterfell. As it was, they'd been walking for the better part of a week. The cart made it so they had to take the main, well trampled paths, which in turn assured that more than a few wandering eyes raked over Bran or Rickon. Generally speaking, it was less conspicuous if the youngest was out and about, walking and drawing attention away from the boy curled up in the cart, but presently Rickon was sleeping. There hadn't been time to throw a blanket over their bodies, which had worked well in the past.

The day passed quickly, and they stopped for a noon meal just long enough for the Wilding to put an arrow neatly through the wing of several small pigeons. They weren't the most hearty of meals, but the grease would warm their bellies for the rest of the day. It was toward nightfall when a problem arose. About fifty paces down the path, seven or eight young boys walked, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen or twenty. They wore armor, all black, and some held weapons at their sides. They were a rag-tag bunch, moving with no real purpose except for along the road. Osha eyed the giant of a man walking next to her, and despite the cold, a sweat had formed on his skin. She smiled at the way the simple man kept quiet in his fatigue. She held a hand out in front of Hodor, bringing him to a stop.

They had developed a bit of a ritual when it came time for making camp. The cart was large enough to be leaned on end against a tree, and beneath it Bran and Rickon made easy beds in the furs and mats that cushioned Bran's ride during the day. Osha had long grown used to sleeping out under the sky, and if she were being honest, her time spent until the roof of Winterfell made her uncomfortable. The Wildling didn't like the sequestered feeling of being indoors. Hodor slept easily as well, though if he fell asleep before the rest, his snores kept them awake for hours. Hearing Bran and Rickon giggle about the rhonchorus sounds was almost worth the lack of sleep.

The next morning, Hodor woke them as the sun rose, and thoughts of the men on the road in front of them were long gone. The days had started coming later and leaving earlier, and the chill of Winter had started sneaking into the land. Most of the game had started gathering food for hibernation or building their burrows. Osha took the morning to strip the roots from some katniss and winter artichoke. Rickon complained when he saw them disappear into a basket in the cart, but they would keep through the long winter. The wildling woman disappeared into the trees on either side of the path, hunting and gathering only to return to drop what she'd found into the cart and move off again.

The group of men had left earlier than they had, but when Osha returned to the cart, they were far more close than Osha was comfortable with. They were quiet, moving as though fatigue had seemed so far into their bones that they could no longer carry their feet forward without stumbling. Fear was outweighed by curiosity, and the wilding disappeared into the tree line again, circling around the group-now that she was closer there were only five of them-to step out in front of them on the path. The boys and Hodor were catching them up from behind, but Osha had seen the bone weary looks on their faces before. There would be no fight in them.

"Where bound?" She called out, body held to the side, knees bent and ready to propel her into the tree line again. The one in front, a chubby, hairy jawed young man looked up from the snow patched dirt, but his eyes seemed to roll right by her. From behind him, a thinner, mouse like boy slipped around and stared at her hard, holding a hand out, stopping the larger boy only after he ran into it.

"Easy Sam." He turned toward the other boy, who had backed up, apologizing quickly in a hushed voice, eyes darting back and forth. There was an anxiety and panic there that Osha had seen before, in some of the Wildings in the North that had seen more than a man could take. The boy's mind was broken; the wilding hoped that he was strong enough to come back from whatever had caused the fracture. "We're going South to King's Landing." The mouse like boy responded. The two youngest didn't seem to register that she was present.

"We have word of the wall, and tidings of Winterfell for whatever Stark we find." Another called out, and the boy in front turned and sent him a pained look. Osha glanced back over their shoulders to the two Stark boys that sat in the cart. Surely they'd heard their surname being called out into the air.

"What word?" Osha asked, torn between hearing whatever had caused the youngest of the Wall to flee. "Robb Stark is in the Riverlands. I take him tidings of his homeland." She amended the truth quickly, the words slipping off her tongue.

"Winterfell was taken." The man said in a bitter voice, but he was cut off by the mouse faced man.

"The rest should be delivered by our mouths." He said, eyes falling to the snow. Osha smiled and relaxed her stance. They'd been to Winterfell, and most likely seen the bodies that hung tarred and set aflame.

"Then deliver it." Osha had missed Hodor's large frame and the squeak of the cart, but as she glanced behind the boys, it was clear as to why. Rickon was asleep in the furs still twenty paces behind, but Bran was suspended upon Hodor's back. Most of the boys turned, but the large one simply stood there, eyes wide and staring. The mouse faced one considered Bran's dark hair and eyes. "I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell." He announced, and Osha was proud of the authoritative tone in the boy's voice. He would make a good Lord one day.

"My Lord, it is sad tidings from the Wall. It would be best to deliver it to your Lord brother or Lady mother perhaps." The mouse like boy was dancing around whatever was to be said, and a hard feeling developed in Osha's stomach.

"If it is the death of the two youngest of Winterfell, you are confronted with evidence otherwise." Bran murmured, craning his neck to look behind him where Rickon slept. "Winterfell was betrayed, but Osha and Hodor have helped us to escape." Hodor shifted from one foot to the other, and Bran swayed slightly on his back. The boy was tired, Osha noted, and promised herself that they would take longer to rest.

"We didn't get close enough to Winterfell to hear about any of that." Mouse-boy replied, and the way his face did not change made the Wildling more uncomfortable. "We were bringing word about the Wall south, and saw the Keep had been taken. Word had spread to the outlying houses."

"Where is my brother?" Bran asked at length, eyeing each one of them in turn. "Is he still at the Wall?" The mouse like boy did not respond, instead, he glanced to the larger boy who had spoke. Bran was a sharp child, and he was no stranger to the faces of adults when they feared the reaction of children. "Where is Jon Snow?" Bran asked, the authority in his voice seeping away to panic.

"Jon?" The large boy asked, voice light and airy, his eyes sharpening and he looked around. The mouse like boy turned and muttered something to him quietly, and he calmed, staring back at the ground. The mouse like boy and the larger muttered back and forth for a moment before they turned back to Bran.

"We should sit down. Your friend looks like he needs to sit, and I know we've been walking for far too long." Bran nodded, and gestured to Hodor to kneel. Rickon slept on the in the cart, and the rag-tag group of the men of the Wall dropped with a bone weariness that made them difficult to find threatening. Osha perched on the balls of her feet in a low squat, studying each of the men carefully. Two of them were too young to have taken their vows, and were most likely being kept at the Wall until they were of age. They fell into sleep quickly. The largest of them sat with his legs crossed out in front of him, mumbling to himself under his breath as his hands picked at a loose thread on his trousers.

"I'm Pypar; this is Grenn." Mouse-boy introduced, indicating himself and then the larger of the two that had spoke. Grenn nodded, but seemed more interested in studying Bran than talking to Osha. "We were in the same group that as your brother when we went to the Wall." A faint smile ghosted across his face before disappearing. "A month ago the horn blew at the wall, the horn sounded three times." Osha's eyes widened in realization and she sat down heavily. "The older men laughed at first, but when two of the three that had been sent ouf beyond the wall came back running, they told us to gather the youngest new recruits and go South to King's Landing. Sam was still North of the wall, and one of the men drug him back. He hasn't made much sense since." Pypar glanced toward the largest among them, and Osha nodded.

"He saw the White Walkers." She murmured, but it was heard by all of them. "North of the Wall, we call it White Madness." She explained, voice going far away from her. "Some recover with time, but the fear that sinks into your bones sometimes never leaves."

"We walked by Winterfell a eight or nine days ago." Grenn explained. "We hoped to find a place there to leave the children and Sam, but when we rested at an outlying farm, they said that the Keep had been taken by the Greyjoys." Bran's fists tightened against his knees. They fell silent for a few moments, and Bran took a deep breath.

"What of my brother?" He asked, but the resignation in his tone suggested he feared the worst. Pypar and Grenn exchanged glances for a moment, and it was Pypar who continued the story.

"Snow went out with a group of rangers. The group returned except for Yoren and Jon. We don't have any other news." Bran glanced hard down into the snow, and nodded once. Osha sighed and considered the boy for a time. There were encouraging words that could be said, but they would be lies. Mance Rayder had a hatred for the ranger named Yoren, and anyone found with him would most likely die with the same exaggerated slowness that he had promised the ranger.

"He has Ghost." Bran finally said, and looked up at the group. "We're going South to Robb, which is where you should go. There's a war on, and King's Landing is a dangerous place to be." Pypar nodded and he eyed the boys that were still asleep.

"If we can give them an hour-"

"Two." Osha interrupted. Rickon was still asleep. Bran was sitting upright, but there were deep circles under his eyes. Hodor, for all his strength, would tire eventually, and they would need him to make it to the Riverlands. "Get some sleep. We don't have much food, but you're welcome to what we have." Osha stood up quickly and leaned down, planting a hand on Bran's shoulder. "Rest little Lord." She murmured, and disappeared into the woods on either side.

When she returned little over an hour later, everyone was asleep off to one side of the path. With a sigh she sank down against the cart and wrapped a fur around her firmly. The sun would be setting, and there was no reason to push forward.

Tyrion wasn't completely sure what was going on in his life, but then again, between the whores and the ale, he never really had been. Except now there were no bouncing breasted women or tankards of ale. There were dusty books, and of course, he hadn't considered any other woman since Shae had walked into his life, but he was still at a loss for what would actually be happening in the foreseeable future. There were maesters for his face, and his father of all people, had visisted him several times, wearing the pendant of the Hand of the King. Word had reached him of his father's entrance into King's Landing, and while the ignorant little whelp that sat on the throne didn't see a problem with his declaration as hand, it made the Imp chuckle.

The vision of his father, riding the white Lannister steed up to the throne, shit and mud marring the floor made Tyrion laugh so hard he nearly split scab that was holding his face together. At first he'd been shy about the further injury to his figure, but in the end, Shae had resolved the issue. Apparently, scars could be as attractive as a face as smooth as his brother's. It had been a few days since his father's last visit, and the Hand of the King had sent word that he would join his son at the noon meal, and that should the whore-his father could not be convinced to not use the term-be present, he would have her head on a spike outside of his window.

Tyrion had sent Shae off nearly an hour prior, and his father still hadn't walked into his dusty chambers. Tyrion considered the angle of the sun critically for a moment, jumping when the door was kicked harshly open and into the wall. "By the Gods!" His father's voice growled as he stooped to avoid striking his head on the door frame. "The insolence of that child!" It didn't take any further explanation for Tyrion to know that his nephew had done something yet again.

"And what has the blessed child of my sister done this time?" Tyrion asked, a little smile on his face.

"He knows that the crown is penniless! He knows and yet the Baratheon extravagance can't be beaten from his head." Tywin paused a moment, his old, lined face considering something before he shook his head.

"If you're debating the finer points of actually beating the money grubbing from his head, I'd recommend slapping." Tyrion arched an eye brow when his father eyed him critically. "To be fair, I haven't struck him lately." Tywin sighed and sank down into the high backed chair that he'd had moved into the room. A snap of his fingers, and his personal servant was in front of him ladling soup into wooden bowls and pouring wine into flagons. A roast duck was growing cold between them, but the grease was rich enough that neither cared. Their meals were, for the most part, spent in discussion of the kingdom. Where Tywin saw the physical prowess of his son as a strength in battle, he was starting to see the mental fortitude of his youngest child far more useless, especially considering his other son was still in the Stark hands.

"Jamie is the next priority." Tywin confirmed when Tyrion asked where the Lannister bannerman would ride next. "But we've the Stark girl. The little wolf won't do anything until he has his sister back." Tyrion nodded and took a long drink of the ale.

"Perhaps the war should be ended." Tyrion had been considering the statement for days, and yet it slipped past his lips as easily as wine. "It was my dear brother that started all this ire with the Starks, and it was Jeoffry that began the war with his ignorance." Tywin's face darkened a moment, but nodded in the end. Whether Tywin had guessed at the incestuous relationship between his eldest children or he simply had imagined Jamie had done something else to anger the Stark's, Tyrion was unsure, but he hadn't expected the agreement.

"Paying the bannermen is costly, and the crown has drained even our significant coffers." Tyrion arched an eyebrow. There had never been an end to the Lannister wealth, and there were always loans that could be called in. If war was on though, those debts would most likely not be repaid soon. "If his mother can't get the brat under control, we'll see another reign such as the Man King's." It was the harshest thing that Tywin had said of his grandson, but Tyrion had expected he felt as much for a while.

"He listens to Jamie." Tyrion pressed, hoping that retrieving the boy's true father might bring some levity back to the King's mind. "He's cast off the Stark girl. We could call a truce, and exchange hostages at least." Tywin nodded and considered the possibilities for some time, sucking on a delicate bone from the mallard's wing. "I'll send a raven to the Riverlands. If the exchange goes as planned, then we'll talk for a more permanent peace, but Jeoffry wants them all dead. The Starks have no reason to want peace. They've won more of the battles they've entered, and the young wolf is gaining strength."

"They are a tough group." Tyrion couldn't help the smile from crossing his face. He enjoyed the Stark family, or those that he had interactions with. Jon was amusing and far more intelligent than anyone considered. Bran was a smart child, bright eyed despite his crippling. Robb was his least favorite, from all of the Stark that he'd met, but there was a bit of his father there, that demanded respect. He'd first thought Sansa was far more fluff of snow than hard of ice, but she'd proven that she could stand the weight of the gilded cage. Perhaps Sansa now knew why Cersei called her 'dove' and understood what rich people did to pretty birds. It was Arya that Tyrion wanted to meet. The tales he'd heard of her antics amused him even second hand, but the girl had somehow escaped King's Landing when her father had been beheaded.

"You like them." Tywin nearly accused, and Tyrion shook himself.

"Of course. If you'd met them, you might as well." Tywin considered for a moment. The Starks had always been beneath the Lannisters. He had little time for anyone below his station, but as his cup bearer spilled yet another slosh of ale onto the table, he sorely missed both the conversation and service his previous servant had brought him. There was a fatigue in him that he'd not known before. Mayhap a quick end to this war would be for the best of all involved. If Jamie was returned to him, and Sansa to the Starks, his grandson could be dealt with when the time came.


	8. Coming Home

Author's Note: It has come to my attention that I have been misspelling Joffrey and Jaime. Thanks to the reviewer who pointed it out. I was also asked to take a bit longer and go through this chapter. So, what you've got here is edited to the best of my abilities. Please note that I don't have spell check at the moment. **Note Added:Holy Hormones Batman, FF has a spell check! **Sorry if it took a bit too long for your liking. I've looked through the old chapters, and while I didn't think they were too grammatically off base, if a person takes the time to review, then I'm going to take their input. With that being said, this AN is mine, and not edited.

Also, I would really like to thank you all for your reviews. They mean a lot to me. I tend to Mama Bear my story, but hearing both positive and negative feedback is always good. A reviewer also mentioned wanting a Tyrion/Arya meeting scene...which will SO totally be coming soon...yes...soon. (Bangs head on desk and keeps editing.)

Chapter Eight:

Sansa wasn't quite sure why she didn't take Sandor Clegane's offer and flee King's Landing. After all, the nearly daily beatings and verbal beratement had become old-hat. The only difference since the day Stannos had attempted to take the Landing was that, at that time, she had been clothed in precious silks and had been bathed by hand maidens. Now she was dirty, the heat of the dungeon soaking her through to the bone in sweat and the awkward feel the rough burlap she'd been wrapped in chaffing her skin. The dank, mildew smell had soaked into her very bones, and her once brilliant head of red hair was stained a dull brown from the mud and dirt that seemed to coat her entire body.

Instead of on the run, probably on sore feet but hopefully toward her mother, she was laying in the very cell her father had been kept in-something Joffrey was sure to tell her as soon as the metal had swung home-trying to keep the rats from nibbling at her bare toes. This was something her brothers or even Arya would have handled better, she was sure, but it wasn't Robb or Jon or Bran or even Eddard Stark's ever favorite Arya that was in the dungeons. This was Sansa Stark, and she'd be damned if she'd managed to keep herself a Lady in the King's Court only to be turned into a gutter rat in his dungeons.

At least Joffrey's attention had been diverted. The ignorant Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon would soon find that her King was in fact a child who wasn't beaten enough while he grew. They were having a quick courtship, from what Sansa could glean from the man who was charged with bringing her meals and beating her daily. At least she didn't have to look into his traitorous eyes and tell him she loved him any longer. Thanking him for her abuse had almost been enough to driver her mad. Margaery Baratheon, forth in line for the Queen's chair, would soon become Margaery Baratheon, Queen of all Westeros. A gilded bird in a gilded cage. Sansa had thought that Cersei's affectionate moniker of Little Dove had been just that, but it had been exactly what she had intended to make Sansa Stark. A pretty bird for a pretty cage, that would sing its pretty little lies when asked.

And oh! had she sang beautifully for him. She'd stood in front of the King, her father, and her sister and sang such sweet words that her father had believed her. She'd hunched her shoulders against the feel of her sister's sharp eyes at the back of her neck, and lied. There had been dreams since then. In her dreams she opened her mouth, squared her shoulders, and called the spoiled prince on his lies. Often times, in those dreams, Robert Baratheon was alive and well, disciplining the child that would one day become king. In others, Lady tore out Joffrey's throat. Those were her favorites and her most feared. While she slept, her direwolf was alive and well, but when she woke the harsh truth of her own lies was forced upon her. With Arya missing and her father dead, she had no one to blame for her own tongue. At the time, she'd though Joffrey would love her for her pretty words.

Except Joffrey didn't like pretty words, he prefered screams and blood and fat tears. The whore that had been sent to his bedchambers hadn't faired as well as Sansa. The Stark girl had managed to keep her body hidden with her arms and skinny knees, leaving the soft organs undamaged, but her arms and legs ached at the best of moments. There was a harsh image of the whore in her mind's eye, broken and bloody. There were rumors that she would never again work in a pleasure house. Sansa was thankful that her beatings had been more emotional than physical. Of course, the physical would come more often now. The guard would be down before the sunlight passed between the next two bars of the small window. Sansa sighed. There was something to be said for knowing when an attack was coming. As it was, the light made the dark cell less terrifying, lighting a bench and a wet blanket.

She'd been in the cell for three days now, but she'd yet to do anything but eat and sleep and lay in her own filth. Something about picturing her father in the cell, huddled under that blanket, made her burn. There was a harsh ripping in her chest, and she forced herself onto her legs to stumble across the room to shake the blanket out, squealing when a dead rat rolled out onto the cold stone floor.

"Quiet, ya' little bitch!" The guard yelled from down the hall, and Sansa blushed her shame silently, both the sun and blood heating her cheeks.

"I'll be quiet." She murmured as she took the blanket and tucked one edge around a window bar and the other around a bar of the cage, stretching it wide to dry in the sunlight. "I should not have been quiet before, but now I will." She told herself in whispers. She had a visitor later that day, one she hadn't expected to see again until her brother cut his head from his shoulders. Littlefinger perched outside her door like the bird on his pin, thin and waif like, watching her with dark, beady eyes. They didn't speak at first, instead they exchanged such dissimilar gazes that if an onlooker had bothered to decipher them they might not have before the sun's setting.

"I did try and warn you. You and your mother." He muttered into the cell. There always seemed to be a joy in his voice, but in the darkness of the cell, it was gone. Sansa was sure it was the room absorbing whatever cheer it could. She refused to believe that he could feel any regret for his hand in her situation. Had Stannis Baratheon taken King's Landing, with his hoards of men, Sansa might have spread her legs and awaited the punishement that Cersei had sworn would come to them happily. At least they would kill them when it was over. Life in Joffrey's cage was far more painful that any rapeing Sansa could imagine.

"And because of that you are innocent in this affair." Sansa reasoned for him, voice flat and devoid of the emotion she was sure he wanted to hear. For all of his faults, the red headed Stark did not doubt that he loved her mother. Loved her in a way that life in the Capitol made you love. Just as Cersei loved Jaime or Joffrey. Just as Varys loved his little spies. There was a love, in the Capitol, that was bred from necessity. The things you needed-or thought you needed-became the things you loved.

"I am not a Ser. I have no house, and while I have money, it isn't the kind that wins wars or saves pretty little girls from Kings." Littlefinger's voice had dropped, and there was a tone of anger to it, as if he was annoyed with himself.

"Of course." Sansa let the word huff from her mouth, trying desperately to speak like the Lady her precious Septa had trained her to become. "My mother might have married you had you that kind of money." It was meant to hurt and cut and rip like the claws and jaws of her dead direwolf. Her fur stained red with blood. The words had done their job. Littlefinger left without another word, and she had no faith that he would return.

"A girl would do best to behave and wait out the war." A hoarse voice called from the darkness of one of the cells further along. There was no light down at the far end, and Sansa had been unaware of any other prisoners. There had been no other trays of food taken down or visitors for someone other than herself in the three days she'd been in the dungeons.

"Whose there?" She called in the most regal commanding voice she could muster. There was no reply for some time, and just as she started to think that her mind had made up the voice, it spoke again.

"A girl with soft hands and no friends should stay quiet, low, and wait for her time to strike." Sansa stood up and crossed to the far side of the cell, where the sun was just starting to leave it in shadow.

"Who is that?" She called again, but there were no further words of wisdom, and Sansa didn't have the strength to call out again, risking that it truly was her mind that was mocking her loneliness.

The beating came when she'd expected that it would. The guard was rough with her, probably for her outburst earlier and the harsh words to Lord Baelish, but he was lazy, slapping her and laying a foot into her delicate ribs. That evening, she would lay down with the dry blanket, say a prayer to the Old Gods of her father, the New Gods of her mother, and even those Gods that she'd heard about across the Narrow Sea. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would force down all the stale bread and broth brought to her, grow stronger, grow harder, and the next day she would stomach more of the same.

She was Sansa Stark. She had turned a wolf into a dog, and now they'd turned a dove into a hawk. Maybe the blood she'd torn from the flesh of Petyr Baelish didn't drip from jaws and claws. Maybe it had come from talons and a curved beak. If it had, they were weapons given to her by those she'd turn them against.

* * *

Sandor had been riding for three days before he'd met the rear of the Lannister army. News of his abandonment hadn't reached outside of King's Landing, and he was allowed to ride through and onward, across the barren expanse that made up the dead zone between the two armies. Bodies and spears, dismembered extremities and arrows, pecking crows and shattered blades. Sandor felt at home amongst the smoldering battleground. There were broken things here, and he was more broken than he'd like to admit.

There was something itching at the back of his mind, and had been since he'd fled King's Landing three nights prior. The little bird had insisted that she would sit and sing in her cage until her brother's rescue, and the Hound couldn't help but want to toss her over his shoulder, be the brute she'd thought him. With a quick shot of his heel into the mare's side, he thundered across more wet dirt and puddles. There was someone on a horse across the way, anxiously running the animal back and forth over a ten or twenty pace span.

"Easy!" He shouted, and his voice was harsh to his own ears. "Peace!" And it was peace. He'd served Robert Baratheon because Robert Baratheon was, for the most part, a decent King, but his son was not someone he would mourn the loss of. The man was just a boy, and the Hound had to laugh as he shied from his hulking form.

"You're not under a banner of truce my lord!" The boy shouted, voice cracking with age and fear.

"You don't need a banner if you're not on the opposite side." Sandor growled, "And I am not a lord. Take me to your Wolf King." He demanded, and the man turned, doing as he was bid. If it had been a man in the Lannister army, escorting the Stark boy or one of his bannermen to Tywin, Sandor had to wonder if the young guard would have survived the night. As it was, Sandor found himself disarmed and seated in a tent-not a gallows or chained to a spike-awaiting Robb Stark. There were murmurs about, all telling different tales, just outside of the tent.

_Sandor Clegane! Lannister sent him to barter a truce. They don't know about the Kingslayer!_

_The Hound. Joffrey's sent his dog to kill us all in our sleep. _

_Robb'll put a sword in his belly, and be done with him. _

Sandor almost hoped that would be the case. He'd broken his own words. Sworn to Lannister. Those were the words of the Clegane family, and those were the words that he had thrown off from childhood. When Tywin Lannister had taken up his elder brother as one of his knights, Sandor had asked to be sent to the Queen's aid. His father had sent him happily enough, and Sandor had spent his time serving a Lannister that was a Baratheon. With time, he convinced himself that it was the Baratheon he served, and not the Lannister.

Joffrey's taunting eyes danced in front of his face, hard and demanding then frightened and cowardly. He was standing, just there, by the flap of the tent, his feminine form slight and barely able to hold up his own sword. His white blonde hair and the jut of his chin that while handsome on his Lord Uncle Jaime, made him look rat like and mutated. The form shifted, and there was strength there he'd never seen in the boy, but then the dark hair and pale skin should have told him that it was no longer the nagging memory of Joffrey that stood by the tent flap.

"Why are you here?" Robb Stark didn't sound much like his father, but the demanding tone did ring with Stark pride.

"Your sister is well, but won't be forever, Wolf. If you're going to save the pretty little bird, then you're going to have to do more than sit in the Riverlands." Sandor ignored the question and addressed what had nagged at the back of his mind for the better part of three days. "She thinks you're coming to save her. So do it." His tone was more harsh than he'd meant, but the young wolf pup simply frowned more deeply.

"I would have traded her for the Kingslayer, but my mother has done something very foolish, you see." Robb murmured, completely entering the tent and allowing the flap to fall shut behind him. It was a dangerous game he played-and he knew it-being trapped alone with the Hound. Sandor followed the young Stark with his good eye, waiting for the moment he might draw the large sword at his side and plunge it into his chest.

"And what could be more foolish than anything the Child King has done?" Sandor asked, his hatred for the Baratheon heir evident in his tone. Robb stopped circling and considered the Clegane with a harsh stare. Robb watched the harsh look on the Clegane dog's face appear as if from smoke, and it was clear in the instant that the man sitting across from him would be an ally against Joffrey, if not against the rest of the Lannisters.

"You hate him." He reasoned easily enough, and relaxed against a chair across from the table Sandor was seated at. It was easy to brush off the question that he didn't want to answer. It was true that his mother had sent the Kingslayer with Jayne to try and barter for Sansa's life, but there was little hope of success. The big man nodded, and glanced toward the slit in the tent, from which the sun streamed through, outlining the form of his mare and the package wrapped in fur that sat, strapped down to the side of his saddle.

"I'd intended to bring your sister back to you, when I left King's Landing, but she's a stubborn little bird." He glanced to Robb as he tensed. "So I'll bring you news instead, and something you value less highly, if you are your father's son." He pivoted on the wooden chair he was seated on, and leaned over the table. "Your youngest sister, the one who runs like a boy, she's been out of King's Landing since your father's death." Robb's face relaxed, but Sandor kept speaking. "I saw her leaving the Red Keep with two boys almost a month ago now, but I kept my silence. She escaped successfully."

"If she's free, why hasn't she returned to Winterfell, or to her family?" Robb bit out, trying to find lies in the truth, but praying that they didn't exist.

"I don't know. I said I saw her, not that I had tankard of ale with her." The Hound bit out, struggling not to reach out and ring the boy's ear. Did he not realize good tidings were laid out before him? "And I've brought you a gift, on the saddle of the mare I rode upon." Robb nodded, rising from his chair slowly, eyes staring at something that wasn't there as he made his way from the tent. Sandor sat in silence as he heard the faint noises of his horse dancing and the leather being released to slip down the edge of a blade. There was a whispered word, but it was lost in the noise of the day outside.

"Find it boy?" He shouted when the silence drew too long, but he was not answered. Instead, little over an hour later, the Stark boy returned, with his father's sword clasped at his hip. The boy's cheeks were reddened, but there was a steadiness to his jaw and shoulders that meant he'd gotten himself under control.

"What do you mean by coming here?" He asked, voice softer than it had been earlier when he'd asked. Sandor eyed the blade and the tried to place even a bit of Sansa into the boy in front of him, but there were no similarities. Where as the little bird was her mother, this boy would be his father.

"The boy needs to be dealt with." Sandor muttered, eyes dropping to his hands. Hands that could have done more before they fled from the flames and ale and harsh stares of people that knew nothing of a boy that wanted nothing more than to be a knight on a horse, serving a true king in a fair land.

"Oh, I'll deal with Joffrey Lannister." Robb sneered the last name, and Sandor looked up oddly at the boy. Joffrey was a Baratheon, no matter what his mother's name had been before the marriage.

"Baratheon." He corrected, but it was ignored.

"Lannister." Robb demanded, and continued, "The whore Queen likes to spread her legs for her brother." And everything was explained. The way the boy looked like his Uncle. The delicate sickly set his his body. The evil that was brewing in him just as it had in the Targaryens. With a belly rolling laugh, he tossed his head back and let out a roar of laughter that was nothing other than humor.

Robb Stark left Sandor Clegane with the solid feeling that there was an ally in the large man. He ordered that he ben monitored, but be given a tent and his sword. If his entire army couldn't bring down one disfigured man, he deserved to lose the war. Slipping through the crowd, he nodded at those he made eye contact with, and shook hands when they were thrown his way. Few hands met his however, his handfasting had been poorly received.

Walder Frey's bannermen had muttered about gathering camp and leaving, but the risk of future penance to be done made them stay. Robb didn't doubt that word of his joining with Talisa hadn't already reached the Twins, but he couldn't be moved to care. His mother had been rash in her promise of his hand, and she had proven that she could make further poor decisions since. He would do as he pleased.

And he pleased to slip inside his own tent, pull back the covers to his bed mat, and wake his sleeping wife. There were still hours of the day left, she couldn't be caught sleeping for at least another few hours for laziness sake, and there was no way he would let the men snicker about how his newly wed wife could sleep soundly through the night.

* * *

Osha woke to thunder, but the sky was bright and there were no clouds for as far as her eyes could gather. She sat herself up, fear starting to run through her as the rolling clash became more defined. There was no mistaking the sound of hoofbeats any longer. With a cry, she shook Hodor awake, trying to get the giant of a man to hoist the sleeping Bran into his cart, while she did the same with Rickon. The boys of the Wall woke at her cry, Pypar coming to his feet, drawing his sword before he even wiped the sleep from his eyes. Grenn was coming to his feet more slowly, grabbing blindly for his own sword.

"Come on!" Osha cried, trying to get the giant of a man to his feet, but he was both slow to wake and slow of mind, a combination that Osha hadn't realized had been so dangerous. A whoop and a grey yearling raced past, the rider small for his age. Another, this one riding a horse as white as the snow around them, was a woman, delicate with long blonde hair running out behind her in waves.

"I give!" The blonde cried, rearing in the horse beneath her and turning to address Pypar, who had the blade gripped tight in his hand. "Peace." She said the word evenly, almost a warning more than a tiding. "I mean no harm." And it had to be true, Osha reasoned, as the girl was unarmed and the boy was too small to do much damage. The thundering of hooves from behind that was slowly growing in volume was startling though. Surely they were not all women and children. Osha nodded to Pypar, who put the blade away as the boy wheeled the beast back around and let it canter easily back.

"Daenerys! You cannot quit in the middle of a race." Osha looked a second time, but it was still a boy seated on the horse, hair cropped short around his chin, pulled back in a messy band. He wore a warrior's outfit, made small to fit his body, of hardened leather, with a wickedly twisted blade at his hip. Bright eyes raked over Osha and Hodor quickly before passing to the boys dressed in black. "Black? You're from the Wall?" The boy asked, urging the horse forward, and there was something in the boy's face that made Osha look again. The eyes were soft, the lashes thick and dark. There was a softness starting in the cheeks. The voice was-

"Ar-ya!" Rickon cried from the cart, and the boy poked his head out from under the heavy fur. There was a sleepiness to his eyes that spoke of how quickly he'd been forced into the waking world.

"Rickon!" Osha tried to hush the boy, but the young man on the horse was already off of it, moving too quickly to the cart and throwing the fur back. The feminine boy stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking at his sides. There was something jumping beneath the skin of her jaw, a tension in her that was absent in the boys in the cart.

"Arya?" Bran asked, reaching a hand out, head fallen to the side slightly as he studied the rag-a-muffin version of his sister that stood before him.

"Bran. Rickon." Arya said the names quietly, slowly, as if tasting them on her tongue. She shivered from fingertip to toes, and Osha heard the blonde ask something. The words were lost to everyone, as they watched the girl lurch forward, pulling Rickon from the cart and onto her hip, suspending him there with a firm grip as she reached out to clamp her hand around Bran's neck and pull him forward. Danaerys watched quietly, eyes flickering between Arya and the woman who had yelled the boy's name. The Dothraki would come down upon them shortly, if the hoops of the Blood Riders were to be heard correctly, but it was a large black stallion that was coming down the road.

The great black stead that Jon had ridden from the Wall was shining with sweat despite the cold, having been left far behind, laden with the heavier Jon and the even heavier saddle. Daenerys watched Arya lighten as she hugged the boy to her chest, laughing and layering kisses to his forehead. "Arya?" Jon called when he got close enough to see her empty horse, but it wasn't the girl that answered. The larger of the boys pulled away from his sister to turn, using his arms to try and sit up properly in the cart.

"Jon?" Bran shouted, turning and trying to pull himself up over the back of the cart. Hodor watched carefully as the boy nearly toppled down the other side, and finally reached out and plucked him from the cart. "Jon!" Bran shouted again as he steadied himself against the large man's shoulder. If Daenerys questioned their relation before, as Jon nearly put his horse into the ground dismounting, she didn't any longer. The man from the Wall nearly ripped Bran from Hodor's arms, drawing him down and tucking the brown head of hair under his chin.

"You're alright." Jon murmured over and over, taking long strides with the boy on his hip, as a mother would with a babe, to sweep Arya and Rickon up into his embrace. He turned with the entire weight of them twice before he fell to his knees. Daenerys watched as happy tears rolled freely down Arya's face and studied Jon for a moment. The young man had his dark eyes shut tight as if he could hold the emotion in by simply shutting his eyelids.

"Dead." Arya muttered, her happiness caught up in her grief now. "You were dead, and Theon-" She didn't finish the sentence, because Jon was crushing her lungs between his big arm and chest with renewed vigor. The siblings were lost to the Dothraki hoard that was quickly catching up and to the men of the Knight's Watch, who were having a problem of their own.

Sam hadn't been sleeping, but Sam hadn't slept since the day he'd been left North of the wall and the ice demon had looked into his soul. No, the boy had simply sat against a tree, trying to shake the blue eyes that seemed to be everywhere. No matter how hard he tried to see past the dead flesh and fight past it, there was always more. More blood. More ice eyes. More crystal weapons that shouldn't have been as strong as they were. More pictures of what Jon Snow surely had become, alone so far North, in a land where the dead never died. Sam was sure he'd heard the Iron Borne's at the Wall say that once or twice.

_What was dead may never die! _They had shouted it at each other in pride and fear and battle. Surely Lord Snow was deadly enough with a sword in his hand, the White Walkers would have taken him as one of their own. He had looked too, when the ice like eyes had borne down upon him. He'd scanned for the head of dark hair that would stand out in the blinding white snow storm. He hadn't seen it, and in that moment, there was such a surge of hope in him that he had managed to ignore the dread that the cold stare settled into his stomach.

The blue had pulled him under eventually, and all Sam had wanted to do since was wait. He was sure that if he waited long enough he would simply die, but there was something else sitting in the back of his head, demanding that he keep moving. Death was meant to be final. If he let his skin become eyes, and his brown eyes bleed blue, he was sure that that would truly be the end of Samwell Tarley. As he sat, fighting with himself, the something in the back of his head rebelled, throbbing and shouting at him. There was a voice that called to something in his mind, something or someone that demanded he be more than the coward hid father had condemned to the Wall. It was too far away to listen to though, and he simply ignored it until it was closer, too close, shouting and crying.

_Hurt. _Sam reasoned, and the fact that the voice was hurt bothered him. His eyes opened, and between the blue and pale that haunted his vision, he saw a darkness. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin and even darker clothes. Pyp, his mind finally reasoned, but then the voice spoke again, and he was clear enough now to hear it more clearly. He wasn't sure why, but a few seconds after he realized who was making the noise, Pyp and Grenn had pinned him to the ground, and were screaming at him to stop something. Sam wished he knew what.


	9. Defending Death

Jon wasn't sure when he had died exactly, only that he was warm and his heart didn't hurt any longer. Bran and Rickon were returned to him in that place beyond life, and Arya was tucked there as well. Arya wasn't dead though, and it was that fact that anchored him to reality. Baby Rickon was no longer a baby, and Bran was alive, if not broken. There was a crying noise, something thrashing and clawing at flesh, but it wasn't important. His brothers were alive. His brothers were alive. He paused at that and opened his eyes. His brothers were alive, and Theon Greyjoy had to have known it.

The break from his happiness threw him harshly back into reality. Someone had been screaming, and it was a ripping, wet noise from so deep in the person's chest he almost didn't recognize the sound. It was the mutterings of the other boys that solidified the image of Samwell Tarley in his mind. Samwell Tarley with his rounded face screwed into a gruesome scream. Samwell Tarley with his chubby arms finding more strength than they ever had to throw Grenn to the ground. Pyp followed suit soon after, and it was the threat he saw in the other boy that had him gathering the lot of his siblings in his arms again and forcing himself to his feet to deposit the load into the cart.

"Sam?" He asked hesitantly as the large boy stood, breath coming in gasping pants. "Pyp. Grenn. What's going on?" Grenn had made it to his feet, his big hands out toward Sam in a placating gesture. Pyp was still staring up from the flat of his back, eyes wide as he studied Jon Snow.

"You're alive." He muttered, a slow smile blurring across his face in that hesitant way that Pypar always seemed to smile.

"Aye, last I checked. You as well." Jon muttered, his mood darkening the longer Sam stood there with his eyes wide and wild. "What s going on here, Pypar?" Jon asked again, the words slow and measured as he took a step forward. The Dothraki Khaleesar had caught up, and the Blood Riders were fidgeting uneasily in their saddles. Jon eyed the way they watched the swords on the hips of the men of the Night's Watch. Pyp slowly crawled to his feet, the smile faltering and turned to Sam, whose breaths came in quick gasps.

"Sam was north of the Wall when the White Walkers attacked." Jon's eyes slid over to Sam, whose big form was starting to weave back and forth. "He's been like this off and on since." Pyp sighed and took a step forward to try and calm the other man. Jon watched as the slim boy walked forward, both arms up in front of him in a calming fashion. What happened next happened quickly, more quickly than Pyp or Grenn had ever moved, more quickly than Jon had ever expected Sam could move.

The handle of Pyp's sword had somehow found Sam's hand, and the bigger man had muscled it from its scabbard. With a dull whoosh, the blade was drug free, flailing haphazardly at Pyp and Grenn, the two closest. Pyp slipped down beneath the blade, and danced easily out of the way. Grenn wasn't as lucky, as the tip of the blade cut into his cibep. The slow man made a dull noise of pain, and attempted to back away before the blade came back around. As it was, Jon wasn't sure when he'd drawn Longclaw from his side, or when exactly he'd stepped forward and between Grenn and Sam. What he was sure of what that the bigger man in front of him was much stronger than he'd ever let on.

Longclaw was stronger and with a keener edge, slipping easily down the length of the other man's blade when combined with Jon's superior knowledge of blade-work, sending Sam's to the snow covered ground. "Sam!" Jon shouted, bringing the blade up and leveling it at the other boy's throat.

They were stuck there for a moment, Jon not wanting to push forward, and some deep seeded sense of self preservation freezing Sam to his place. The bigger man blinked a few times, shook his head, and deflated like an old balloon. "Sam?" Jon asked, but the boy simply took a stuttered step backward and sat down hard on the ground. Jon stood there a moment, breath coming faster than he'd like to admit, entire body humming with the adrenaline that had sparked inside his blood.

When the man from the Night's Watch turned away from Sam, it wasn't the blood he saw that stained the snow from Grenn's shoulder, or Pyp who was pressing a cloth to the wound, or the way the Blood Riders had circled Daenerys, or even Jorah Mormont, who was halfway between the Kahleesi and Jon, his own sword half out of its scabbard. He saw his siblings. Arya with her own crooked blade drawn away form where it normally hung at her side. Bran with his eyes wide and a prideful little smile on his face. Rickon looking on with complete faith that nothing was wrong, the naivety of youth.

)O(

The Blood Riders and Daenerys had refused to let Sam walk freely after the incident with Pypar's blade, and Jon wished that he was against the idea. As it was, his hands had been bound out in front of him, and the rope was tied to the same saddle that drug Theon and Asha forward. Jon was riding that horse now though, his black courser heavy enough to force all three of them along. Daenerys had urged they keep moving south, something that Arya had echoed. It was an odd thing, the change in his sister. Face scrubbed clean each morning. Hair pulled back and washed as often as life on the road allowed. There was still the spark of Arya Stark though, with her wicked blade and the little smile of mischief that seemed to come more from her eyes than her lips.

The pair were riding on either side of him, Arya glancing back to glare at Theon and Daenerys worriedly looking at Sam. The wildling girl that had been with Bran and Rickon had admitted that she'd seen an ailment similar to Sam's in the past. It had been an unsettling conversation for Jon.

_"I've seen the White before." Osha murmured as they bound Sam's hands behind his back. The Blood Riders were being none too gentle, and the wildling winced when the boy cried out in pain. "It kills most. Don't eat. Don't sleep. You just give up." _

_"You're telling me he's going to die?" Jon had said in a low, even tone, that gave away nothing to those who didn't know him and everything to those that did. _

_"Most likely. It'd be fairer to kill him." Osha had murmured, but it had been Igritte that Jon had listened to a moment later. _

_"Kill the boy, Snow, and be done with it." Her tone brooked no argument, had no chinks to attack or waver to find hope upon. "He's as good as dead." Osha did not object to the words, and something about the settling and the way one of the Blood Riders drew his sword made Jon burn. _

_"No!" He shouted, turning toward Ygritte with a fire in his eyes that the wildling girl hadn't seen before. "That is Samwell Tarly. That is a brother, and that is a man that we will not give up on." Pyp and Grenn-who had been bandaged and was stoicly riding out his pain-were behind him in a moment, both looking more menacing in their black than they had minutes ago. _

_"That is a boy that will kill you before he dies." Ygritte murmured, slipping from her horse to stand toe to toe with Jon. "That is a boy that has seen the Blue Eyes, and he will die if he doesn't have the courage to come back." Silence fell with her words, and Osha turned to look at Sam. _

_"How long?" Jon asked, turning away from the clear decision on Ygritte's face to try and find hope in the other wildling. Osha considered Sam and the other men of the Watch for a moment. "How long until he's himself?" Jon asked again when no answer came. _

_"It depends my Lord." Osha murmured, turning to look at Ygritte. The women shared a look, and it was Ygritte that spoke. _

_"My father died of the White Sickness when I was a child. My mother as well. My older brother. My younger sister." Each person added to the list was a statement. "I was still in my first years, four or five. I'd never known the Winter, and the elders say I still haven't. The White Walkers have been awake for longer than your men know, Jon Snow. Most they touch die. I stared into the eyes of their leader and was lost for months." Osha looked to the ground and muttered something under her breath. To Jon's ears it sounded like a prayer. "If he's to come back from the White Sickness, he'll not do it soon. You'll have to tie him down at night, watch him during the day. Treat him worse than you've treated those Greyjoy slaves that you're taking to your brother." _

_Jon, Pyp and Grenn shared a look, and as simply as they had all come after Jon the day they'd ran, they would stand behind Sam. "He'll live." Jon announced, as if by simply saying it, he could make it come to pass. Ygritte held his gaze for some time, backing down only when Danaerys echoed his statement. _

_"We'll keep him bound, like this woman suggests." Daenerys said, her tone brooking no argument. The Blood Riders nodded, taking her decision as law. "This should be a happy occasion. Arya, introduce me to your siblings." Just like that, the pale haired woman settled the feud, calmed both sides, and brought the situation back to a merrier light. Jon could see the ruler in her, on rare occasions, coming through both firm and fair, but when she crouched down to play with little Rickon and shake Bran's hand formally with a little smile on her face, Jon could see the girl again. _

It didn't matter how disturbing the conversation had been though. It had been settled with a fluid grace with no uncertain terms. Samwell Tarley would live until he died of his own means, White Sickness or otherwise. Arya was talking to Bran, who was riding in front of Daenerys on her silver mare, and the white haired woman was laughing at some old story they'd told her. For the better part of the past day, they'd been sharing stories of their childhood days. Bran getting stuck up in an old elm tree. Arya hiding from her Septa because she'd sewn poison ivy into the lining of her skirts. Rickon sleeping with his Shaggy Dog, who along with Summer, was running happily along with Ghost.

It was a mentioning of his name that drew his attention. "And what of Jon Snow?" Daenerys had asked, and Arya had regailed her with a story of how Robb and a little Arya had smuggled Jon into one of their mother's special dinners.

"We only got caught because Sansa started yelling about Jon and the miller's daughter." Arya explained, and if Jon screwed his brain hard enough, he could remember the miller's daughter. She'd been a kind girl, with a soft heart and a round face. She was her father's bastard, and they'd bonded over the title. "It was fun while it lasted though." Arya regailed Daenerys with the events of the party. "It was almost worth the punishment." Jon flinched at that. He'd remembered the punishement. He'd been beaten few times in his life, but that day his father had been away sorting out business at the Wall.

"Speak for yourself." Jon muttered with a grimace. "I couldn't lay down for days." He tugged on Theon's rope slightly, the young man had stopped walking, fear in his eyes as he watched Sam thrash against his restraints.

"Why weren't you allowed to go?" Daenerys asked in her little voice that told him he already knew why. Jon ignored the question and watched the three walkers with a wary eye. Theon Greyjoy had killed his brothers, and that was why he was on the end of the rope. "_But he didn't," _a little voice inside him demanded. _"Bran and Rickon are alive and well." _And that provoked far more questions than Jon would like to acknowledge. He pondered on them for the rest of the ride. When a halt was called, he unpacked his horse, arranged his, Bran and Rickon's sleeping area, and sat down by a small fire.

Bran was across from him, eyes dancing in the flame as he watched the Dothraki people go about their nightly ritual. There was fighting and laughing, practicing at war and practicing at love, mourning and life. They were an alive people, Jon was very sure of that, and it was no small wonder why Arya took to them so well. The girl had gone off somewhere with her beloved horse, and was playing at teaching it to respond to her voice, as Bran had told her he was able to ride. If anyone could make a strong headed beast do so, he was sure it was Arya.

A short way from his fire, Ser Jorah sat with a wine skin in his hand, watching Jon as he cleaned and sharpened Longclaw. The man of the Night's Watch was uncomfortable under his gaze, sharp and unrelenting. The whet stone slid down Longclaw in a comforting rhythm. Jon turned toward Bran, attempting to draw his attention, but the boy was lost to the Dothraki men that were wrestling in the snow.

"That's a particularly hansom blade." Jorah's voice startled him from watching his brother. The knight had scarcely left him less than twenty feet from his site since the incident on the road earlier with Sam.

"It is." Jon replied, tensing as he pushed the stone down the edge of the blade.

"Tell me, how does a bastard boy of the Night's Watch come by a blade such as that?" Jon sighed at the tone, and the memory of Commander Mormont's face when he'd given him the blade danced in the back of his head. He was probably dead. And Aemon. And Allister Thorne. They were probably all dead. He couldn't conjure up any sadness for his one time Master-at-Arms. "Boy?" Jorah asked again, and Jon considered him. There was a familiarity to the drawn set of his eyes, but the likes of it he couldn't place.

"My commander." He replied easily, drawing the blade across his lap. "May the Old Gods honor his name."

"Your commander is dead, boy?' He asked, straightening from his reclined position.

"As far as I know." He murmured, sheathing the blade and glancing toward Pypar and Grenn, who were watching the dragon hatchlings play fight with each other. Jon considered them a moment. They'd been growing by the day, and had stepped up from pieces of horse or goat to hunting animals for themselves in the rustle of the trees. Soon they would need to fly to keep from tangling themselves in the branches of the trees. "You'd better ask Pypar, he was there when the White Walkers fell upon the Wall."

"The Old Bear was your commander." He said softly, staring into the fire.

"Yes, he was." Jon answered, suspicion welling into his belly. "Commander Mormont was a good man."

"Commander Mormont?" A voice questioned behind him, and Jon turned to stare at Daenerys, who had slipped from her tent with an armful of blankets for those sitting around the fires.

"Yes." Jon snapped. "What is going on?"

"Jorah?" Daenerys asked, but the knight had stood, turning from the fire and disappearing into the woods that seemed to grow darker the closer they crept to King's Landing. Daenerys ignored Jon's question and instead turned from the fire and walked back into her tent. It would be a long night for many of them, but the sooner she ended it in sleep, the sooner the sun would rise.

There had been much cause for confusion and thought on the part of Daenerys Targaryen. She had married a Khal. Birthed and lost a son. Seen the rise of dragons again in the world, and somehow, beyond all odds, convinced Dothraki blood riders and their families to cross the sea and ride against a King to take the Iron Throne to honor the dying intent of her husband.

She had been riding on instinct. Wishes and thoughts. She hadn't known what would happen when she actually set food in what was the kingdom of her family again. There were too many factions, she had decided. The Lannisters fighting the Starks. The Baratheons fighting each other. The Greyjoys rebelling while the Stark's backs were turned. Too many families changing sides as the dice were rolled. She wasn't sure where she stood.

Arya had warmed her heart to the Starks, but it had been Ned Stark beside Robert Baratheon that had driven her family from Westeros. Could there be room in this newer age for a Targaryen girl to side with the Stark children? As she settled down into sleep, Arya's voice shouted something at her horse out into the night, and Daenerys smiled. There would be room, if she made it. Robb Stark could be the King in the North. Daenerys could sit on the Iron Throne in the Southron Lands, with her dragons flying high above them all. Perhaps she'd make good on an old thought, and lay seige to the city of Qarth.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.


	10. Chapter 10

Jorah didn't sleep that night. In fact, he hadn't slept a peaceful night since setting foot on Westeros ground again. It felt odd to be back on land that had banished him, in the company of the children of the man who'd helped do the banishing. He'd thought about simply disappearing. Danaerys was safe amidst her blood riders, and the Stark children, though young, held more power in this land than he did. Of course, there were always the dragons as well.

Something stayed him though. At first he'd thought it loyalty to the girl, but that had dried up in him long ago. The truth of it was on the hip of Jon Snow. He wanted Bear Island. He wanted to be a Mormont, one recognized by those who would have known his father. He wanted the title and the lands and the keep and the respect that should have been his. So he stayed. He let his sword hang at the hip of the bastard of a shamed corpse, and he bided his time.

In the meantime, he told himself, in the meantime he would find a new way to get close to the would-be Queen. Should Joffrey Baratheon fall-and it was rather looking as though he would, what with his Uncles fled his side, the Hound rumored to have fled the Landing, and his incestuous father in the hands of the enemy, Joffrey Baratheon-Lannister was quickly running out of allies to have his tiny back. The boy would fall eventually, and the question became who would sit the throne when that finally happened. With the way things were going, it might be one of many people. Danaerys, of course, was in the running. The Stark eldest. Even the Lannister dwarf and Tywin were possibilities. He was simply allying himself with the biggest dog in the fight. Danaerys had her blood riders, and while they and their families were not great in number, they were a fierce people.

Arya Stark was not a physically strong ally. She would not win battles on her own, but when push came to shove, Robb Stark would come to his sister's aid, as would Jon Snow, and both of the Stark boys were fierce on the field of battle. Robb had his followers. Jon had his own, if the remaining men of the Knight's Watch were anything to stand by. Then there was the most obvious of strengths, though it might not come to fruitition for a few months. The dragons. The animals were the size of horses now, eating entire stags in one sitting. There had been horses that had died which had been ripped apart by the beasts. Those three would tip the scales to Danaerys, and the people would follow the Mother of Dragons by sheer fear, if nothing else.

So, Jorah bit his tongue when the Stark bastard drew Longclaw when tensions were high. He bit his tongue when Arya had all of the Stormborne's attention. He bit his tongue when the Dothraki people scoffed at his armor. He bit his tongue so often that his stomach churned from the blood in it. He found himself waking the next morning, blood in his mouth and on his chin, and the Greyjoy boy staring at him from where he'd been staked out with his sister and the crazed boy from the Knight's Watch.

"What?" He asked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and strapping on his belt. The boy averted his gaze and slipped into silence. Jorah let it go, choosing instead to stumble out into the forest and relieve himself in the bushes. Theon remained silent, watching as the knight stumbled off into the woods. The Greyjoy heir's sharp eyes had missed little since his blind had been removed. He'd seen the way the man watched Jon, especially when the blade was drawn. He had hears, and the Dorthraki that watched him spoke openly around him, what did it matter was a corpse heard, after all?

Asha was awake, staring off after the man as well, a little smile on the corner of her mouth, and it scared Theon more than he'd like to admit. "Do you know what wolves do when they starve, brother?" She asked him, her sharp eyes turning on him. He didn't answer, choosing instead to watch the way she adjusted her legs out in front of her, the picture of leisure save for her bound hands. "They turn on each other."

"What does it matter what wolves do when they starve?" He asked, not likeing the uncomfortable way she made him feel.

"Because like your surrogate father's words claim, winter is coming. The horse people aren't from here, and they'll freeze. The Starks are too young to fight for themselves, too soft. The ocean does not freeze." She said, and Theon found himself only slightly more aware of what she was say, but chose instead to ignore her rambling.

"What is dead may never die," he whispered to himself, eyeing where Bran and Rickon slept. Wasn't that the gift that he'd granted them? Didn't they see that? With their bodies strung high, tarred and fired so they were unrecognizable, the young Stark children were dead, and no one would be looking for them. What is dead may never die.

Jamie Lannister couldn't help but like the woman that had so man times man handled him into submission, his hands bound in front of him, leading him toward Lannister held lands. He had to hand it to the girl, she had balls. He'd been thinking about what she'd had them made of. Bronze or brass had crossed his mind. He stumbled in the difficult light of the thick canopied forest and righted himself with a debonair smile.

"Keep up!" Breyanne shouted over her shoulder, the hilt to her large sword in hand as she walked. They were remarkably close to Lannister held land; Jamie could tell from the ravens that flew overhead. Soon she would be at swordpoint and would find her death, and there would be nothing Jamie Lannister could do to stop it from happened. His men and his father's men would see him, bound and filthy, and would see her, in all her armor and that rediculous blade, and they would end her life.

"You shouldn't be so eager to die," he called back to her, slowing his pace to draw out the conversation they needed to have.

"I do not fear death," she answered him, not slowing her own pace until he stopped completely.

"Fear it no, but don't march into it with a grim frown on your face and wrinkled on your brow." He watched her reaction, and marveled at what he saw there. "You wish for death."

"I do no such-"

"Do not lie to me, I can see it on your face," he took a few steps forward. "Is your life so miserable? You do what you please, that much is sure. Is death so welcoming?" He asked.

"I do not fear or welcome death. I will carry out what my lady has asked of me, nothing more, nothing less." Breyonna responded, and turned away from him, trudging through the undergrowth and ignoring the obvious signs that they were nearing the end of their shared journey.

Tyrion was woke by Shae in a way that far exceeded anything he'd experienced since being shut into his room like prison. They spoke for a time, the sun rising in the sky, shining through his one window. "And what makes you so sure that fleeing King's Landing will grant you freedom?" Shae asked him, running a single finger tip up and down the length of his sternum.

"What makes you so sure that staying in King's Landing will grant you yours?" He countered.

"Nothing," Shae replied easily. "I just know that you are a lion, and your people are here." They both fell silent a long moment, Tyrion thinking on what the phrase 'his people' entailed. There was his sister, who he would do well to never see again. His nephew he would kill himself, should someone spot him a wicked blade and perhaps a stool to stand upon. His father, someone that he hadn't ever considered a person that he would want in his life until very recently. Jamie, but then again, Jamie wasn't at the Landing. He sighed.

"I'm thinking the definition of my people needs changing," he lifted his hand to run a finger along the slowly healing wound to his face.

"Then we shall change it," Shae replied, sitting up quickly. "Where would you go? North? Or perhaps across the sea? Braavos? Lorath? I coud show you thinks in Lorath." Tyrion almost laughed at the light that lit her at the mention of traveling.

"Then we shall go there." He paused, "We shall go everywhere." He sat up and pushed her delicately from his lap. "But first we would have to leave."

"Leave that to me," Shae said simply, a smile on her face.

"We're going to have to get to the dungeons as well," Tyrion mused after a long moment, his eyes sliding sideways to Shae's who had slipped completely from the bed to gather things from the room in a rucksack.

"Why would we need to..." Shae paused a moment, her head falling just so to the side, and a wicked smile crossed her face. "I can do that as well. Be ready to leave when the sun falls."

Arya woke with an idea. A wild idea, something her father would have called a wild hair up her nose, but it was too good to resist. So, with a saddle in hand, she woke before most of the rest of camp and wandered out into the clearly that the dragons had made the night before to lay themselves down. She eyed them a moment as they slept, steam coming from their nares, billowing out into the day.

With the saddle in hand, she walked slowly over to the deep red beast, the one that Daenarys seemed the most bonded to, and set the saddle gently down onto the beast's back. It shifted in sleep, but remained at ease with her, one eye cracking open to stare at her a moment before closing again. A small victory won, she let the straps slide down the animal's side, and both of its eyes opened to fix her with a firm look.

"Easy," she hummed to it, and rubbed a hand down its long neck. She'd touched them before, but mostly it was the cream dragon with the golden markings that sought out her touch the most. The red dragon had always been the most volatile of the three toward the youngest Stark girl, but she wasn't saddling the creature for herself. The beast snorted, thick billows of smoke spewing from its nostrils. "Easy!" She left backward as the heat overwhelmed her. "This is for Danaerys; you want to fly with her don't you?" She asked the beast, and it ducked its head low, glaring at her, but didn't lash out when she came closer, reaching under the beast and fastening the saddle on its loosest rung, which was still tight around its belly.

She stood back, watching as the red dragon paced in a circle, looking back over its wings to its back, where the saddle was strapped. It looked awkward there, the wrong size and probably not located the best for flight, but it would work for a first try. She admited her handiwork, letting the animal calm itself enough to let the other two dragons come sniff at the saddle and occasionally gnaw at it. After the newness wore off, the animal settled down, and the gold dragon came and butted its head against her shoulder, a habit it had developed as a much smaller dragon.

"Hello," she said calmly, stroking one hand down its muzzle, ignoring the sting in her palm from the heat of its nostrils. It butted against her shoulder again, and settled down to nap again. Arya considered the red dragon then, drawing the bit she'd fashioned from a loop at her belt. It was far more threatening than the saddle to place. The fire came from that end, and the red beast already was letting thick blackened smoke slip from its jowels. "Alright," she said at last, stepping forward with sure strides, to stare the animal in the eyes. Her hands came up shakily, and in an instant, the bit was snatched from her hands and thrown yards away. She glared up at the dragon, but turned away to fetch the piece only to repeat the process time and time again.

"You are infuriating!" She snapped finally, tossing the bit to the ground and loosening the saddle so it fell to the ground. She gathered it in her arms and left, her shoulders stiff. She ignored the cream beast when it snaked its tail out in front of her, a game they'd started when it was young, and instead of jumping over it as she should have, she simply walked around it. The dragon settled to the ground with a huff of smoke.

That was how Jon found her, hunched over the saddle, holding the bridle in her hands, sulking. "And what has you so cross this morning?" He asked, bumping her shoulder with his own after falling to the ground beside her.

"I tried putting the bridle and saddle on Danaerys's dragon," she finally admitted, her eyes sliding to Jon, who looked down at her with a sigh.

"I suppose I shouldn't expect less from you," he finally settled on accepting her actions.

"I was trying to surprise her." Arya's face soured slightly. "It let the saddle go, but it won't take the bridle." She sighed, looking at the piece of metal and leather in her hand as though it had offended her.

"Do you think a horse takes a bridle the first time its shown to it?" He asked with a chuckle. "This is not a horse, Arya. This is a dragon, and it is dangerous. Perhaps a bridle would be a bad idea anyway. The leather will turn to char and the metal will melt under its flames." Arya's eyes narrowed as she considered this and nodded.

"Then how will she lead him?" She asked at last.

"Who says he has to be lead?" He countered and stood up, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder and ruffling her hair. The Dothraki were waking all around them, and they would ride out soon. Arya's mind focused on the thoughts throughout the day's ride south. There were signs of war around them. Fires and feet had leveled the path for them. The dragons feasted on bodies that were left to rot, and while it turned Arya's stomach, she recognized that game was scarce. They could easily hunt the land clean in the next few months, should it be allowed.

They rode for four days before they reached the Twins, the gates drawn up and barred to them. Danaerys met with Jorah, Jon, Arya and a few of her Blood Riders at the base, astride their horses. A horn was sounding deep within the gates, but they stayed barred for the better part of two hours. The Blood Riders had become irate, screaming and shouting obscenities at the game. Arya tried her hand at a few, which made Danaerys shake her head and Jon smile.

"That's Arya," he said in her defense as one of the Blood Riders taught her knew ways to insult and jeer.

"You don't fear for her future?" Danaerys asked finally, face turned just so to the side so she could see both Jon and Arya.

"What's to fear?" He asked. "Our father is dead. Our family is disgraced, and if we don't survive this battle as the victors, we'll all probably be dead. If we win, Robb will arrange either a marriage or a place for her. If you sit the Iron Throne, would you give her a place?" He asked.

"Of course." Danaerys answered immediately. "I just-"

"Things are different in the North than in the South." Jon said simply. "Arya is not a Southron Lady. Sansa wanted to be." Jon went silent after that, and Danaerys accepted his wordlessness. The large door was pulled open, and out from it, a handful of guards rode.

"Lord Frey will not again open his gates," one man yelled toward them. Jon sighed, wishing his brother was there. Surely Robb would know the proper technicalities to get the gates parted. They would be doomed, there would be no doubt in that.

"Lord Frey will either open his gates or they will be burned to the ground." Danaerys said, voice strong and ringing. A moment of silence passed only to be followed by laughter.

"And how do you propose to burn down the Twins?" One of the men asked. "There is water all around, and so few of you."

"Bring my children," Danaerys whispered to Arya, who had ridden around to her side. Arya grinned at the older woman and nodded, the smile never leaving her face. Danaerys withstood the chastizement of laughter for a few more moments, until they died down, their eyes taking in something that their minds could not process. "I am Danaerys Stormborne, the last Targaryen. I was wife to Kahl Drogo. I carried the Stallion that would Mount the World." She paused, her eyes flickering to the sky as her three dragons swooped low over the parapets of the Twins. "You will open your doors, or the Mother of Dragons will burn them to the ground."

Jon watched the woman next to him turn from someone that he could joke with, sit comfortably, with, and not feel inferior to something that nearly frightened him. She was thunderous with her leather armor over one of her Dothraki dresses, her hair in braids behind her, as she had taken to wearing it since the fight at Winterfell. "Tell Lord Frey that dragons are born again." Jorah shouted toward the men on their rearing horses. They turned and fled back into their gates, the dragons swooping lower over the parapets and out over the fields on the other side of the river. The red monster, the largest of them, landed atop a grazing cow and ripped into the flesh of its flank. The green followed suit, and only after turning a great circle did the cream dragon follow her brothers to the ground, feasting on the beasts that would have lain on Walder Frey's table.

They ate their fill in the field, arrows glancing off of their hides as if they were water. Another few hours passed, and as the sun set, Arya turned to her brother. "How long will he have us here?" She asked, voice clipped and annoyed.

"As long as he thinks we're bluffing." He asnwered, voice hard but strained with the weight of what they would have to do if they hoped to cross. Bridge across was stone, but the tall Twins was nearly entirely wooden, and the people inside would bake very much like a stone oven should they set the Twins to burn.

"They we'll show them," Danaerys said after a long silence. She glanced to Arya, who gave her a lop sided look.

"It is what Drogo would do?" The blonde woman asked one of the Blood Riders, who considered for only a moment before a wicked smile crossed his face. "Then we will burn it to the ground if they haven't opened the gates by the time the sun disappears." She drew in a deep breath. "Tell them." She told Jorah, who rode the small door and gave a great knock, shouting their threat through a small slit hole.

It went unanswered, and the flames licked the Twins just as the last of the sun's ray disappeared behind the horizon. The men on the parapet would have heard Danaerys ride forward, extend her hands before her, and scream, "Draconys!" The ones that survived the flames would later tell stories to their children about the pale warrioress who commanded dragons to burn their towers to the ground, about a trio of shadows that spat flames, and about a pained screaming that came from both within and without the Twins.


	11. The Price of Loyalty

AN: Did everybody else catch that friggin' awesome season premier and the second eppie? Well I did, and it has renewed my vigor. I feel bad that I made Mance Rayder a dick now that I've met him, but you know...I'll bring him around eventually...maybe. Anyway, here's the next bit. I should warn you that I haven't seen the second episode of this season, so take that into consideration.

**Chapter 11: The Price of Loyalty**

Arya hadn't ever seen a building burn. Surely she'd seen small shacks and huts burn to the ground. Surely she'd seen the ruined Winterfell, but she'd never stood by and watch something the size of the Twins burn to the ground. She'd never really smelled that much charred flesh either, but the world was changing. Arya Stark would be damned if she didn't change with it. The burned skin was not as scarring as the bodies that still moved even with their blackened flesh.

The stonework of the bridge was tenuous, but it held their weight as they crossed, laying mercy to the ones that still lived. The Dothraki reveled in it. These men had died by fire over water, and there was something in that they found remarkably enjoyable. On the other side of the river, the signs of war were thicker. Deep trenches had been dug in the earth where the heavily laden wagons had dug deep tracks. Bodies were occasionally found decomposing alongside the horse path, the remnants of skirmishes here and there.

The youngest Stark rode quietly for the first time since they'd made land. Gendry rode beside her, a silent guardian against the more jovial Dothraki. They had come to her first, in their revelry of their victory, but the burned flesh turned her stomach and made her mind return to the bodies of the two children swinging on the end of their ropes. Children that had brown eyes and familiar faces. The blacksmith's apprentice had-as he always had-seen through her in a matter of moments, placing himself between the revelers and the girl, letting her deal with everything in her own way.

For him, she was silently grateful and more guilty than ever for leaving him to his own devices for so long. He had always been able to see through the mirror of Arya Stark that she put on for the world, to the Arya Stark behind the glass. The girl that was nervous. The girl that was angry. The girl that was so scared that she was afraid to stop smiling or she may start sobbing. The girl that still thought names in the middle of the night. The girl that still smelled charred flesh and remembered the wounds she'd put into her own knight in tempered steel and charcoal.

Her head shot up from staring at the mane in front of her to look at Gendry. He gave her a measuring glance before glaring at another Dothraki who whooped particularly close to them. He glanced back to her to find her still wide eyed and staring. "What?" He asked, voice gruff from non-use.

"I hurt you," she said, voice slightly shocked. "I didn't check on it." Her cheeks flamed with guilt. What had she done, she wondered, to deserve such a friend?

That little smirk fought its way onto his face, first one corner then the other, the middle fighting to keep them in charge only to fail. She had to admit there was a certain flair to him when he smiled like that. She could see something there then, something other than the stern blacksmith's bastard apprentice.

"It's fine, almost killed me, but I'm made of stronger-oof!" He broke out into a fit of chuckles as the girl laid her fist into his abdomen, sending the air right from his lungs. "You'll open them up again!" He chided between chuckles, but she wasn't listening. She sat astride the great grey mare, sulking in her own juices.

He smiled down at her as they kept riding, relaxing into his own saddle. There was no reason to be a wall anymore. The girl next to him was very much herself again, and he was content to let himself slip back into the background of her life. He was good there, he had long ago decided. He would live on the periphery of her life for as long as she'd let him, and why should he not? She'd managed to work their escape from Tywin Lannister. She'd been strong through everything they'd encountered-perhaps a bit unhinged at moments, but what young woman wasn't? There had been a time when he'd thought about leaving her. He'd just slip off in the middle of the night, leaving the slip of a girl to defend herself. Then she did something completely rediculous.

He'd start thinking about leaving and she'd drink some unknown concoction and walk into a tower without doors.

He'd get an itch in his feet and she'd lunge at him with that wickedly twisted blade of hers-that he still didn't know how she came by.

He'd pack up what little he had, and she'd ride with the Dothraki Khaleesi and become part of her khaleesar.

He was a worrier. He hadn't been before, but when he, Hotpie and Arya had essentially started taking on the world together, he'd started. He fretted after the little curly haired boy as well, especially when he chased after the men from the Wall like they were gods. Pypar and Grenn-or something similar, he wasn't sure of their names-hadn't encouraged the boy from doing their daily conditioning and self-set chores, but they hadn't discouraged him either.

So, Gendry had had his hands full watching the boy. He'd ignored the way Arya seemed to fall deeper and deeper into the Dothraki culture. He had, at least, until he saw her wide eyed and staring as the Twins burned. Now, with the sounds of an army on the horizon and a war coming, there was an itch so deep in him to just run that he was almost sick. He was a boy, older than Bran or Rickon surely, but he still wasn't a man. In the new world, he decided, it would be the sons fighting their father's battles. Too bad he didn't have a father.

* * *

Tyrion had grown tired of the whining. Bronn whined about Forel whining. Forel whining about Shae whining. Shae whining about Sansa's whining. Sansa whining about the terrain, and the weather, and the food, and the-"Fuck, girl, one more word and I will lose my temper!" He pivoted on the leg that ached the least and turned to glare at her.

"You'll lose your temper!" Sansa said, voice rising in that way that it had been all day. "I've been walking for days."

"You walk for two days, girl," Syrio countered, his hand going to his hip for a sword that was not there. "A girl will die if she does not become a woman."

"I am a woman," Sansa defended. She was a wolf; she reminded herself. No one would take away her claws or teeth again. She would use them, and hell to any man or woman that tried to tell her otherwise.

"You are a child," Shae said, short and simple, before continuing forward. Tyrion watched the woman go with an odd sense of pride. That was his woman. She would be at his side until the end of his days, and her strength would be as fierce the day she died as it was the day he met her, of that he was certain.

"Now that we established the age of Sansa, shall we go into you as well?" Tyrion asked Syrio, who simply fixed him with a firm look before walking away, the peacock pride to his gait that he always had about him, even when he had been covered in hair and mud and feces that may or may not have been his own. That had been the first thing Tyrion had taken care of when they'd managed their escape through the caverns below King's Landing: pushing the Braavosi First Sword right into the ocean inlet.

Tyrion had to admit that with Bronn and the First Sword with him, he did feel far more safe on the road than he ever had in his father's guard. Speaking of the sell-sword, Tyrion's eyes watched Bronn as he lead their little party through the woods. He had no idea how the man had known they were leaving. They'd come out of the tunnels into the sun and there he'd been, sword at his hip and an odd little frown on his face. There had been a moment or two since he'd known the man where he'd thought he'd known too much for his own good, and that was one of those times.

His hips ached and he started walking again. To be honest, he wanted a rest as well, but the sell-sword and the first sword seemed convinced that they needed to put a few more miles between themselves and King's Landing. Miles were little things when on horseback, passing in a matter of an afternoon. On foot, miles were harrowing things when your body was as long as the legs of your traveling companions.

There was no two ways about it, he slowed his troup. Occasionally Forel would turn and fix him with a dark, quizzical look before frowning and catching up with Bronn. The two seemed to get along well enough not to gut each other, and for that he was grateful. The Braavosi First Sword had originally had a difficult time accepting that a weapon was not at his disposal. He'd found a particular sturdy branch and trimmed the side branches off, and the dark look had disappeared from his eyes. Every once and a great while he would reach for his hip when something shifted in the woods or a stone fell behind him because Tyrion had dislodged it.

Once, he had asked Tyrion about the 'Stark boy', which had been confusing until he determined that Forel called anyone who ran about a boy and anyone who sat primly a girl. Arya Stark had been something that Tyrion had only heard about. When they'd visited Winterfell, he'd met Robb of course and Sansa-her mother had introduced her with a florish and an air of condecention. He'd stumbled upon the bastard he'd taken a shine to on his own, but he'd never seen the second eldest daughter. It was something he looked forward to, especially considering the number of times he'd heard tales of her escapades. Escaping from King's Landing and the Gold Cloaks was no easy task, especially for a slip of a girl.

They made their way up the coast, walking just inside the forest, where the foliage was thick enough to cover their trail but not so thick that Sansa and Tyrion couldn't manage to fight their way through. Through the trees, Tyrion watched ships come in and out of the harbor in the distance. They would have to make their way through that to get north, and it seemed almost as daunting as the idea of going north in the first place. They'd talked a bit at first, about going across the ocean. Tyrion surely could hire a crew to take them, but Sansa wanted to see her family. It was impossible to tell the girl that she couldn't go home, especially after his family had taken her from them.

So, they were going north, to the young wolf pup. To the probable hanging of one Tyrion Lannister. He chuckled under his breath. At least they could simple hold the rope instead of stringing him up by a branch. Sansa had said that her brother would spare him for bringing her, but he had his doubts. His nephew had ordered the beheading of his father. His brother had pushed the young Bran out of a tower-yes, Tyrion wasn't enough of a moron to not recognize that lie. His father was at war with them. No, Tyrion had no such illusions of forgiveness.

"Enough!" He shouted a few hours later, his legs and hips aching so badly that he could barely lift them to take the next step. Sansa collapsed to the dirt, heaved a great sigh, and leaned back against a tree. She was the closest to him, and to catch up, he'd still be walking for the next five minutes. He could barely see Bronn turn and head back toward them, and Shae turned back to help him continue forward. They were days away from the Lannister army at pace, and they had to somehow cross through that to find their way to the Northern forces.

"Death awaits if we keep this pace," Forel told him when he caught them up. He didn't say that Tyrion would be the cause, and for that the Imp was grateful. Bronn said something that made the First Sword frown at him, but Tyrion didn't catch it. The sell sword settled down next to him, back against a tree, and took his sword across his lap to sharpen and clean. Not for the first time, Tyrion wondered why the sell sword was with him. When his Lord Father learned that he'd fled the Landing, that he'd dishonored the family by running, that he had betrayed the crown by going to the Starks, he would be penniless. There would be no paying the man, and he was savvy enough about his money to recognize that. Surely Bronn had done so as well.

"Don't overthink things, my lord," Bronn said after a short while. Tyrion arched an eyebrow at him. "I'm here because I want to be. When time comes I want to be elsewhere, I will be." Tyrion nodded and considered for the first time that he had earned the sell swords loyalty instead of buying it.

* * *

Brienne hadn't expected any more than she was given when they reached the Lannister army. Jamie had, to his credit, tried to keep her from being forced to her knees and her arms tied behind her back, but the King Slayer had been behind enemy lines far too long for the young blood to recognize him. The threat of death was the only thing that kept him from recieving similar treatment as they were drug through the mud back to the heart of the Lannister camp.

She had expected the jeers and the hard words directed at her, about her. She had heard it all before, and while it stung somewhere deep down, she was well versed in ignoring it. She had expected the men to ask her if she still had a cunt. She expected them to strip her of her armor and leave her in the thin shift and light cotton trousers she wore beneath. She had expected them to question her virtue and her use. What she hadn't expected, was the reaction of the blonde headed Lannister.

A man had said something one too many times, jaunting and taunting, and Jamie had narrowed his eyes, watching closer than he had a moment before. A hand had found its way to her chest, and quickly to the dirt, where it lay unattached from the rest of its body. Her eyes flickered over to the Lannister man, who had drawn the blade from another soldier's hip and slashed it down and across, severing the man's hand. There was a moment of silence before the action started. Screaming. Clattering of steel against steel. Blood and mud and rain mixing on skin and metal armor.

The next thing she knew, she was face down in the mud, one of the Lannister souldier's leaning against her shoulders, staring at Jamie Lannister, who was in a similar position, struggling against the broad side of a sword that was pressed across his upper back. A grim scowl was on his face as his arms were jerked back behind him and they were both drug up out of the mud.

Thrown into the back of a barred wagon, they sat, bound and coated in the mess from head to toe. Jaime's face failed to morph into the light hearted smirk that she'd seen on him since she'd seen him in the Stark stockade. It was worrisome, she would admit that much to herself, to see him so disturbed over nothing.

"Why would you do that?" She asked quickly and concisely, voice quiet and hard. His eyes found hers, and his scowl deepened.

"Why didn't you?" He spat back, and it took her a long moment to realize that he was mad at her.

"I've been the brunt of jokes before. It isn't worth the consequences," she said. And it was true, wasn't it? How often had she defended herself growing up only to find herself the punished and her attackers the vindicated? How many times had her father told her to hold her tongue instead of her sword?

"The hell it isn't," he countered, slouching against the metal bars.

"A man touched me and lost his hand." She said, slowly as if trying to process exactly what he'd done. "Now we're both bound and in the back of a wagon. They'll gut you before they get to your father. Tell me in what realm that's worth it." She stopped talking as his face darkened. They sat in silence for a long while, Brienne watching as men moved around them, too afraid to say anything in case Jaime was who he claimed. The eldest Lannister kept his silence, staring moodily at the bench across from him.

In his own mind, there was war. War with himself over what he'd done. War with his upbringing. War with what he had previously coveted and considered beautiful. His sister was beautiful, that much was certain, but there was a beauty to Brienne of Tarth has well. A beauty he had never seen the like of. It was no outward thing. Nothing really that he could pinpoint that made him think of her as attractive, but yet there was still something he couldn't put his finger on that was beautiful.

The wagon was pulled forward and they jolted. His hands bound behind him kept him from steadying himself, and he almost fell over on the bench. He collided with Brienne's foot, that caught his shoulder and held him upright until he steadied himself. Her boot left an ache in his shoulder but less of one that would have happened should he have fallen to the bench. He ignored the gesture and they kept their silence as the wagon was taken further south.

For her part, Brienne wasn't sure what to make out of the quiet Lannister man. No one had defended her honor in the past, especially not someone that was supposed to be the bad guy. Sir Loras had openly mocked her. Sir Renly had tolerated her at best. Robb had questioned her ability to carry out her orders, and his men had jeered with the best of them. This man, Sir Jaime, had been right there with them a few days ago, and today he was defending her honor, angry that she hadn't defended her own. To make matters worse, he was a handsom man, distracting at best and dangerous when he smiled. She settled back against the metal bars and made it a point not to look at him.

* * *

Catelyn sat in a cell, a comfortable cell she supposed, but a cell none the less, placed there by her own son's men, on his orders. There had been times since he had taken up the mantle of King in the North that she had questioned his judgement, but none moreso than now, when she was cold to her bones and aching from lack of movement.

Her son had not only gone back on his word but he had married a common girl and forsaken his sisters. He'd locked his own mother in a cage and hadn't been to see her. He had gone to war and become a man, a man that Catelyn wasn't sure was as honorable as the boy she raised.

The longer she sat in the quiet, the more she started to wonder on the goings on outside of the four walls around her. There was a war on, that much she knew. Their side was out matched, surely enough. Though she'd often heard men at Winterfell claim that men raised in the North were worth four times any Southron man, and the fact remained that they would have to be or they would lose.

And losing...well, losing just wasn't an option. Not with her children spread to all the quadrants. For the first time since her husband had carried his squalling form into Winterfell, Catelyn Stark wished Jon Snow was closer. If he was good for anything, it was defending her children. Even she had to recognize that. If Jon had gone south with Arya and Sansa, he would have seen them safely from the Landing. If he was here, now, he could talk his brother into seeing sense. With him at the Wall, he was as useless to her as he had always been.

It hadn't ever occured to her that he served a purpose. She'd never really understood it when he hovered over Arya or spoke in hushed tones with Robb. Now that she had, she realized that perhaps she owed him an apology. Just perhaps...

Perhaps Jon hadn't considered the effect that burning the Twins would have when he stood by and let Danaerys Targaryen burn it to stones. It had been half a day since they left the smoldering wreckage and still the thoughts of consequences echoed in the back of his mind. The worst of which was what Robb would say when he told him.

"Your worried about something," Arya's voice startled him from his thoughts. "What is it?"

Jon considered her a long moment before drawing a deep breath. "Just thinking about Lady Stark's reaction when she sees me again," he lied through a smile.

"She doesn't hate you, not really," Arya comforted, but even she knew it was a lie.

"She thought she'd gotten rid of me to the Wall. It'll be like taking a gift away." They both broke into chuckles. Jon had forgotten how much he liked listening to her laugh. Up at the Wall, there was precious little opportunity to do as such.

"You've got a good laugh, Snow." Ygritte's voice cut between them as did her charger. "Too bad you don't use it more often." She urged the horse forward and through the gap between them as they rode south.

"Not much cause in your company," he countered, and Arya broke into another fit of laughter. Oh, Jon decided, it was good to be away from the Wall. Away from the Wall and toward Robb. Robb, who had hugged him the last they'd seen each other and told him that next he saw him he'd be all in black. Jon glanced down at his cloak, black as night and speckled with mud. He was a man of the Night's Watch now. A man that would have to return to his post after this all was settled. The thought bubbled dispair in his stomach.

"You're worried about something other than mother," Arya said from beside him, and he glanced her way. She was older now, and wiser. She'd never been a dumb child, understanding more at her age than he had, but now she was even more alert and perceptive.

"I suppose I am," he said after a while. Arya nodded and they rode in silence for a while. "I am a man of the Night's Watch. When all is said and done, I'll have to return there."

"You said the Watch was destroyed. You're all that's left?" Her voice was guarded, as if she had a secret she was keeping.

"Yes, and Pyp and Grenn," and Sam, he thought, but ignored it. Sam would never be fit to serve on the Watch again. Sam might never be Sam again. The man had spent the better part of the morning just staring at the horse he was pulled behind. He'd had a brief moment of clarity when the Twins were burning. He'd turned to Jon, who had taken to spending his free time trying to break through to the boy, cocked his head to the side, and asked why someone had set the Wall aflame. When Jon had tried to tell him he wasn't at the Wall any longer, the boy had just started screaming.

Now, he was being led forward by his tied hands. It had been some time since he had lashed out at anyone, and Jon considered that a victory. He called Pypar by his name from time to time, but he still wouldn't acknowledge Grenn. Jon had thought the boy knew who it was, but wouldn't admit it due to guilt. At least, that's what he hoped.

A dragon swooped low overhead, startling his horse that lept sideways into Arya's grey yearling. "Those things are getting bigger," Jon groused, righting his animal with a stern hand.

"They're going to win this war," Arya said, voice firm and excited at the same time.

"Don't be so sure," Jon cautioned. They very well might, with the way they were growing. Even if they weren't strong enough to bear a rider yet-though they weren't off by much-their fire would even a playing field quickly enough.

"I know they will," Arya was confident, as she always was with her hopes. "Danaerys will be Queen of Westeros."

"Your brother wants to be King of Westeros," he reminded, and Arya's face soured at that reminder. She pivoted in her saddle to take in the blonde headed woman. "Who is the better ruler, your brother or Danaerys Targaryen?" She was a good woman, Arya had decided long ago. Blood of her blood. Arya would see her rule with a gentle hand, but would she be a good queen? For the first time since hearing that she was on the same continent as Danaerys Stormborne, Arya saw a flaw in her.

She was spirited. She was pure hearted, but she was weak. She couldn't fight, and when you were Queen, you had to be able to lead your people. Arya considered her a long while before voicing her concern.

"She would be a good ruler, but not a good Queen," she said, turning to Jon with a pensive look on her face.

"And why is that?" Jon asked, a smile hiding on his face.

"You can only convince men to die for you for so long without fighting yourself," she said at last, turning toward him. "And she can't fight."

"So what would you suggest?" Jon had thought on it himself a few times. There were options of course. Some would take longer than others. Some would mean that their march south would need to be slowed if not haulted completely. Some would mean something that Arya wouldn't even consider. Men and women had married for less, and Jon had to admit that marrying Danaerys Targaryen would cement Robb's claim to the throne. And what a wonderful alliance it would make, wouldn't it?

Robb's quiet strength, his sword and his bannermen. His knowledge of war and the banners and all that he'd learned since he marched south from WInterfell. All that he learned under their father's leadership. Danaerys would bring a fire to their company. She had a strong moral compass, and that was something that Robb would need in the future. A woman could afford to be softer than a man in some situations, and he could use that to keep his head. Then of course, there were the dragons. That would be a force would it not? Robb with Grey Wind at his side, the beast as large as ghost now, if not bigger, head halfway to his chest. Danaerys with her three beasts circling above them. There would be no man or beast to challenge them until their death, of that Jon was certain.

"Teach her." Arya said simply enough, wheeling her mare around and kicking its heels into her sides. Jon watched her disappear, a little smile on his face. There was no telling Arya anything, but you could drop bread crumbs and let her come to her own conclusion. Jon sighed and turned his horse about. Of course Arya wouldn't consider a union between the two. In her mind, they were already united and marriage was a useless thing.

Jon leaned back against a tree, watching as his little sister brought up bruise after bruise along the perfect, pale skin of Danaerys Targaryen. "This is pointless!" Danaerys said, tossing the wooden sword that Arya had made from large sticks into the dirt. She shook her hand out, rubbing at her wrist.

"It's not pointless," Arya countered. "You can't fight, and if you can't fight, you can't lead." Jorah Mormont looked on with a grim look to his face. While he didn't care for the method, he couldn't deny the truth to the statement. The flush to the Targaryen girl's cheeks was more than exertion though. She was embarrassed, and if there was one thing Jorah had found it was that the Stormborne didn't take embarrassment well.

"I don't need to wield a sword to command an army," she said, cheeks flaming as Arya tagged her on the side with her makeshift blade.

"No, but you do if you want that army to know your strong enough to follow," Jorah called out to her, drawing his own blade from his hip, gesturing toward Jon with it. The Stark bastard took a few steps forward, an odd little smile on his lips, and faced him. The Dorthraki had gathered around snickering and shouting enouragements to their Khaleesi as she was disarmed again and again. "Would you follow this boy?" He called, pointing his blade at Jon.

"What's the point in this?" Danaerys asked as the Dothraki sent back a series of laughing jeers.

"The point is they've never seen me use this," Jon held Longclaw out in front of him, twisting it in his hand twice to warm up his wrist before Jorah lunged at him. The steel caught and slid, the two blades dancing and sparking as they exchanged blows more forceful than Jon had expected. The Dothraki gathered around watching in rapt attention as the two did their dance. A few shouted on to encourage Jorah, but as the fight continued, Jon had a few supporters of his own.

It carried on longer than an exhibition needed, ending when Jon knicked Jorah's shoulder and the man dropped his blade. Jorah's face soured as he held a hand to his bleeding shoulder. "Would you follow me now?" He shouted, voice rough with a touch of breathlessness. The answering roar was nearly deafening. A smile graced his face as he turned to Danaerys. "That, Mother of Dragons, is why you need to know how to defend yourself."

The blonde haired future queen gave a frown before bending forward and picking up the wooden-stick sword again and squaring her shoulders at Arya. The girl gave her a smile before correcting her form for the tenth time. The Dothraki followed their Khaleesi because she was Khal Drogo's bride. They would follow Danaerys Targaryen when all was said and done because she was the Stormborne. She would become all that entailed, and if learning to use a blade was a part of that, then so be it.

* * *

**AN:** So this is the end of the chapter. I've read over it once or twice since writing it, and while I'm not entirely happy with the pacing of the piece-or what's about to happen-but it is what it is. Hope you enjoy it.


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